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October 31, 2020 / Katie / 8 Comments
The night we moved to Glenmoor Farm Estates, there was a windstorm. The biggest, loudest windstorm I'd ever heard. It shook the windows, rattled the plastic shutters against the siding, thrummed against the door frames and snapped and tore through the flimsy new-growth trees in our front yard. And it blew over the empty dirt field around us in gusts so ferocious and powerful it felt like a living thing. Like a monster, a giant come down from the sky to wreak havoc and eat humans and spread chaos and destruction in its terrible wake.
My dad tells me it was just a little wind, but I remember it differently.
I was ten when we moved in. I was "too old" to be afraid of silly things like wind and giants and the dark, but then, you're never really too old to be afraid, are you? We'd been living in a row house close to the city. My little sister and I had shared one of the two tiny bedrooms, and when my parents found out that we would have a new baby brother or sister – it turned out to be both, and they're too young to remember the move – they told us it was time for a bigger place. So off to the suburbs we went, the four of us soon to be the six of us, out into the wild, as far as I was concerned.
Our old neighborhood was tight, close, and full of other kids. We'd walk to the basketball court, or the pool, or just around on the sidewalk, and we'd bring frisbees and yo-yos and chalk and cards. We'd play and talk and hang out until dinner, or until it was time to do homework or chores. I knew my neighbors, all of them by name, and all of them knew me, and the busy streets felt alive and awake and real.
The new house was different. It sat on a quarter of an acre, massive to us, on a street called Ashwood Terrace. It had more space than we needed, a kitchen larger than our entire row house, and granite countertops. You could turn on the fireplace in the second living room with a light switch. Wrapped in neat, white siding with dark blue shutters, and a small porch at the front, it looked like a quaint little farmhouse straight out of a storybook.
But to me it felt hollow and huge, like a cave. And like a cave, I imagined it was the perfect place for something monstrous to hide, to wait for you and grab you and drag you away.
"You'll get used to it," my mom said, as she unpacked boxes in my new bedroom. "It's just different, but it won't feel different forever."
"I promise. And please be careful not to talk like that in front of your sister. She'll get scared."
I was already scared. And it wasn't just the house. The neighborhood was brand new, unfinished, and quiet as a graveyard. No cars parked on the streets, no kids running around to play with. No one had any interest at all in getting to know each other. Everyone just stayed in their houses most of the time, and no one talked to anyone else. I remember, once, trying to greet one of our very few new neighbors, a woman walking her dog near our front porch.
"Hello," I'd called, and waved with the vigorous intensity only a child can muster for a stranger.
In reply, I'd gotten a stare. Just a blank, indifferent stare. And she'd walked away without even raising her hand.
Glenmoor Farm Estates used to be a family farm, an old one. The builders had demolished the old family home, the barns and sheds, had drained ponds and leveled corn fields, meadows, and pastures, and chopped down acres of forests. They'd eventually replace all of it with custom-built, luxury houses like ours, but they'd only finished six when we moved in, and the emptiness of it stretched out around us, an endless, bare landscape of brown dirt and blank space. I'd never seen the kind of dark it got at night, and in the dark, that empty space played tricks on me. Or, at least, that's what my parents say.
It started the night we moved in, the night of the windstorm.
We were all tired from the day. We'd finished packing the last boxes that morning, had loaded the rented moving truck ourselves, and we'd spent hours unpacking. We didn't have that much stuff, really, hadn't had space to have that much stuff, and what we had didn't come close to filling the rooms of the new house. But we'd all felt overwhelmed and exhausted by the time the sun went down. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches – we couldn't find any restaurant that delivered to our new neighborhood – and went to bed early.
The wind picked up as my mom and I made up my bed for the night, my first night in my own room, without my sister, in six years. I couldn't remember a time without her crib or her bed beside mine.
"It's loud," I said.
"I know," she replied.
"It's really loud, Mom."
"It'll pass," she said. "Just try to ignore it. All new houses have funny new noises."
I stared out the window as I changed into my pajamas. It was dark outside except for the scant light from a full moon, veiled in thin, wispy clouds.
In the moonlight, out in the field behind us, the wind kicked up whipping curtains of dirt and dust. And something else, something like a figure, dancing, twirling and turning in quick, fluid movements. And that figure became two, and then three, and they linked themselves together and weaved and twisted and bent themselves into sharp, unnatural angles.
"There's someone out there!" I pointed straight ahead. "Mom, there's people out there!"
She looked out the window with me and said, "That's just dust, honey. It's okay. It's okay to be scared in a new place."
The wind blew again, a powerful, heavy gust, and I heard a scream in the distance.
"Mom," I shrieked.
More screams echoed my own, high and sharp, like frightened children. Like me.
"It's foxes," my mom answered. "Remember we told you there used to be lots of foxes here?"
"It doesn't sound like a fox. It sounds like a person."
"Okay, bud," she said. "I know you're scared. I know this is different. But you're going to have to be a big kid tonight and be brave. I promise there's nothing out there. It's just your imagination."
She put a firm hand on my back and ushered me to the bed. She tucked me in, kissed my forehead, and turned off the lamp on the side table.
"Mom," I said, "can't I leave it on? Just for tonight?"
"Okay, sweetheart. But just for tonight." She blew a kiss as she stood up and walked out the door, pulling it half-closed behind her. "I promise you'll feel better in the morning."
I listened to the wind for hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined the figures dancing in their wild circle, or the screams that sounded like murder victims. I tossed and turned. I counted sheep. I finally drifted off at what I thought must be after midnight, and I dreamed. I dreamed of the dirt field in the dark. I dreamed of voices and dancing, and of foxes. And I dreamed of a white ball of light, a solitary flame out in the middle of the darkness, and the light wanted me to come to it, to meet it and to follow it.
I woke up to bright sunlight and a quiet, still morning. I pushed my covers away and lifted my feet out of bed. I saw brown smears on my new white sheets, streaks and spots where my feet had been. I lifted up one foot onto my knee, cradled it in my trembling hands. I think I knew what I'd see. The bottom of my foot was caked with dirt.
Looking back, I think that was the first night I sleepwalked. It wasn't the last.
I told my parents over breakfast what I thought had happened. I told them about my dream and the dancers and the screams, and I showed them my filthy feet. My dad found a strip of jingle bells in a box marked "X-mas," and he hung them on the door handle outside of my room.
"This way," he told me, "if you open the door at night, we'll hear it. Don't worry, kiddo. If you sleepwalk again, you won't get far."
"But I don't want to do it again, ever!"
"You're just getting used to the new place," he said. "I bet it stops as soon as you're settled in."
"But what if it doesn't?" I bit my bottom lip, looked up at his face.
"Then we'll take you to the doctor. It's going to be okay, buddy."
I didn't feel like it was going to be okay.
Over the next week, we learned to live with the constant hum of construction noise. The rhythm of hammers and the keening of table saws became our alarm clock. Not that I needed an alarm clock. I didn't want to go to bed at night, begged to sleep in my parents' room, and I got up each morning as soon as I saw the first hint of sunlight.
"You've never been a morning person," my dad said one day, as he drank a quick cup of coffee before work. "New habits for a new place, huh, kiddo?"
"Yeah," I muttered into my cereal.
Down our street, yellow wood frames sprang up like weeds. Rows of bright green sod blanketed sections of the ground. The deep technicolor of the new grass looked wrong against the barren dirt behind us, but my dad said soon there'd be houses back there, and probably plenty of kids to play with, and that we were lucky to have bought in so early.
"We get to see it all happen," he said, with a big smile. "We're like pioneers."
And I suppose we were, in a way. Out alone in this desolate landscape, waiting for the promise of new life and new adventures. I understand why it all made my dad excited. It made me uneasy, to look out my window and find only a dark, empty void.
For the first time in my life, I noticed dark circles under my eyes. I couldn't focus on anything. I fell asleep at my desk on my first day at my new school. The teacher sent a note home, and my mom sat down on the edge of my bed that night.
"Do you want me to sleep in here with you?" She looked tired herself, and worried. A deep wrinkle carved itself into her forehead. She brushed a stray bit of hair away from my cheek.
"Okay," I said.
"I know you're scared, but you need to sleep. I promise nothing's going to get you. Okay?"
"Okay," I said again.
"Okay," she answered back, and snuggled in beside me.
In the warm cocoon of her arms, I finally slept deep and sound for the first time in days. And I dreamed.
I dreamed of women in delicate white dresses. They swayed and whirled in a tight circle, their hands laced together, and they yelped and cried as they danced, and those cries became screams. Screams like frightened children. In the middle of their circle, the light shone bright and steady, and it beckoned me, called to me the way a mother calls to her children, welcomed me. And I listened. And as I made my way to it, the women stilled and turned, their eyes as black as the night around us, their mouths stretched into thin, hungry smiles. They waited. I kept moving. I needed to reach them, to get to the light. I needed it as much as air in my lungs and food in my belly.
I woke up to my mother's arms around me, to her panicked face and her frantic cries.
"I woke up and you weren't there! Oh, honey, I was so scared!"
We stood in the back yard, right at the edge of the grass. The field loomed in front of us.
My parents argued constantly for the next week. They tried to hide it behind closed doors, but I heard them.
"…need to see a doctor, as soon…." My mom.
"…going to be fine…settle in…." My dad.
"…not normal…not safe…." My mom again.
They compromised. They installed an alarm system. It would sound the second any exterior door opened, and it was loud. It hurt my ears when they tested it.
"If you sleepwalk again, you'll wake the whole neighborhood," my dad said. "And it'll probably wake you up, too."
We'd lived in the new house for two weeks at this point. All of our boxes were unpacked, and my mom had started filling rooms with new furniture, with decorations and pictures and scented candles. She'd chosen expensive curtains and had painted most of the rooms in warm, calming colors. To anyone else, it would have looked like a home. To me, it still felt foreign and hollow.
"We're going to paint your room tomorrow," she told me, on a Friday night after dinner. "I picked your favorite color, and I have a surprise for you, too."
I crawled into bed that night wondering what the surprise might be. Maybe a TV. Or a bean bag chair. I'd always wanted a bean bag chair, and she'd always told me we didn't have room. At least that wasn't a problem anymore. I wonder, now, if she'd planned something nice all along, or if she was only reacting to how scared I was, how much I was struggling.
I turned my lamp off and closed my eyes tight. I willed myself to sleep. My mom had installed a nightlight to help me feel safe, and it shined steady, like a beacon. Outside, the wind began to blow. I kept my eyes closed, counted down from ten over and over, and eventually, I fell asleep.
And I dreamed. But tonight, the dream was different. The dancers stood straight in a line, their black eyes fixed on me, their arms outstretched and their palms turned up. The white light flickered in front of them, dim and uneven, but still calling, still pulling me in, beckoning me out.
I woke up in the field.
The women stood in front of me. They were there, and solid and real, and I knew if I reached out and touched them, my hand would meet solid, real flesh. And I knew that to do that would be dangerous, deadly even. The light went out, and they stepped toward me, reached for me with fingers as crooked and mottled as tree limbs. I could hear the wind blow through their hair, crackling, like dry leaves in the fall. I could hear something else too, something high-pitched, artificial.
The alarm. I could hear the house alarm, just faintly, but I could hear it. Home wasn't out of reach, if I could just make my legs work. But I couldn't. I just sat there, frozen, whether from fear or something else, something even more powerful, I don't know.
The women moved around me, encircled me, and I screamed. I screamed and it matched the pitch of the alarm. They locked hands, began to sway and bend and stomp, and move closer and closer, until they became a wall between me and the world, between me and home. And as they danced, they hummed. The hum mingled with the sound of the wind.
And then it stopped. All of it. Arms wrapped around me, lifted me up.
"…scared us to death," my father said. "Let's get you inside and get you warmed up."
Wrapped in his arms, my chin propped against his shoulder, I looked out at the field as he carried me home. It was empty, save for one wood frame, the beginnings of a new house, the first of many.
I didn't sleepwalk after that night, and I haven't in all the years since. The neighborhood grew, and more grew around it, and soon the whole area became a sea of roads and houses, of traffic and people and noise. There are no old family farms left.
I wonder, now, if it was all in my imagination. But it doesn't really matter. The things we fear, and the things we remember, all of our stories, they're real to us. Whatever happened to me, those first days in that new house, it's no less real than anything else, and whatever it was, it didn't get me.
My dad says the night we moved to Glenmoor Farm Estates, I scared myself into sleepwalking. I remember it differently.
Found Friday #10: The most haunted house in Loudoun County?
*If you haven't read last week's Found Friday post, this one won't make a lot of sense. So, you know, mosey on over and do that real quick.*
If you look to your right heading west on John Mosby Highway, just past Gilbert's Corner, you'll see a house. Or, it used to be a house. It's only a ruin now.
It has been for a long time. I've heard it called the most haunted house in Loudoun. And I'm pretty sure Frank Raflo wrote about it.
I can't be certain, but the details line up pretty well. And I confess, the first time I read the story of the day he explored an abandoned, crumbling ruin of a reportedly very haunted house near Gilbert's Corner, I didn't know the area like I do now, and I didn't really put the pieces together. I got it this time.
Mr. Raflo didn't sense any otherworldly goings-on during his brief visit – in fact, he says he felt quite comfortable and at peace – and wasn't able to confirm any of the stories he'd been told. And now that the house is basically only an empty shell, I wonder if we'll ever really know whether it's haunted or not.
At least we have the stories. And judging by the condition of the place, soon enough, they'll be all that's left of it.
P.S. – If you happen to live in or close to Loudoun County and you like exploring abandoned places, a brief disclaimer: This house is on private property, and there are no trespassing signs posted, so please don't go poking around where you're not welcome. It's easy enough to take a picture from the road.
P.P.S. – I know I promised that my short story for October would be posted on Wednesday. My apologies! It took a bit longer than I anticipated for all the pieces to fit into the puzzle just right. It'll be up tomorrow, just in time for Halloween.
October Stories #4: Regret Won't Die
October 26, 2020 October 26, 2020 / Katie / 1 Comment
Here it is, folks – the final post in this limited series. For the others, go here, here, and here.
I've really enjoyed sharing these incomplete snippets! It's intimidating to post things that are unfinished and largely unedited, but it's also sort of freeing. It's a good reminder that, when it comes to writing, something is better than nothing. You can't build sandcastles without sand. Just getting something down on the page is the most important thing.
This particular piece is more a pre-writing exercise than anything, creating a character and a history to build on, inspired by a trip I took (I think I was on it while I was writing this) to the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I imagined this story as a psychological mystery/thriller, with a ghostly component. I liked the idea of exploring regret and isolation, of looking at how running away isn't a solution, and how old hurts and bad thoughts, unchecked and pushed away, can be debilitatingly toxic.
I hope you've enjoyed this series! I'll try to think of some others I can put together in the future. In the meantime, thank you for reading! (And check back on Wednesday for a complete short story for October. It's going to be a good one!)
Laura Fuller had always envied her cousin's hair. Lyla Henry had deep auburn hair that glowed copper in the sunlight, and bright green eyes with fiery gold flecks. Laura's own hair was dull blonde, almost gray, and her eyes were brown. Just brown. Lyla's alabaster skin shimmered like a pearl. Laura's was tawny, always tan, even in winter.
One night, when Lyla and her parents had come for a visit, Laura had teased knots into Lyla's hair as she slept. The next morning, Lyla had sniffled, resigned, as she watched the tangled mess fall to the floor, lobbed off with kitchen scissors. One summer, as they lay on a blanket under a blistering hot sun, Laura watched as Lyla's milky white skin turned deep purple. She'd replaced Lyla's sunscreen with coconut-scented lotion. Laura broke Lyla's glasses, put baby oil in her shampoo, sprinkled pepper in her soda. Any petty, unkind thing. When Lyla cried, Laura smiled.
When Laura learned that Lyla's parents had died, and that Lyla would be coming to live at her own house, she spent the whole night outside wrapped in a blanket, lying with her back on the ground and her feet propped into the tire swing, staring up at an unfriendly moon in an angry sky threatening rain.
Laura believed that we must be born with the ability to hate, because she had hated Lyla, who was chatty and funny and kind, for as long as she could remember. Next to Lyla, she felt dirty and clumsy. At sixteen, Laura could muster only mild sympathy, and a bit of ruthless satisfaction, knowing that Lyla had nothing, no parents and no home and no love. And for that, she felt awful all over again. Why had Lyla been born gentle and beautiful, while she had been born bitter and spiteful?
Lyla settled in quickly, but she cried into her pillow at night when she thought no one would hear. She shared Laura's room, and the day she moved in, she made Laura a throw pillow with lace and sequins to put on her bed. She'd sewn a picture of the two of them into the stuffing, and made herself one to match. Lyla helped Laura's mother with the dishes after dinner, and swept every other day. Laura seethed, and spent hours reading books and lying in bed. Lyla exceled in school, made a large group of friends, and went to the movies every Friday. She put a picture of her parents on her bedside table, and kissed it each night before going to sleep. Laura hid the picture under some blankets in her closet. While Lyla searched, Laura stepped outside to watch the birds in the garden.
About a year later, Lyla didn't come home for dinner after studying with friends at the library, Laura felt relieved to have one night alone. When the police found Lyla's hat and gloves in a ditch the very next day, Laura worried, and cried for Lyla for the first time in her life. When her mother hosted a funeral service, with a casket filled with Lyla's favorite books and photos, and the pillow she'd sewn to match Laura's, Laura spent the night again wrapped in a blanket in the garden, with her back on the ground and her feet propped into the tire swing.
Laura and Lyla were connected, had always been connected, born two days apart to two twin sisters. When Laura had fallen and scraped her knee, Lyla's had scabbed over. If Lyla should happen to trip on the stairs, Laura would stumble. And when Laura felt angry and hateful toward Lyla, Lyla would stare into Laura's eyes with a deep ache in her own.
On the night Lyla disappeared, Laura dreamed of wind and weeds. She dreamed of dirt and dark. In the wind she heard howls, and in the weeds she smelled blood. When she did wake, twisted in a heap of blankets on her bed, she heard only the sound of crickets and clocks, the quiet, calm noises of an old house, and she knew that her dream was real. Laura felt empty and incomplete, as if a part of her was missing, gone, murdered. Whoever had taken Lyla had taken a part of Laura too.
The police never arrested anyone, and they never found Lyla. Laura spent the next two years, until she turned eighteen, haunted by bad memories. If she found a copper hair strewn across her pillow, if she found a picture of Lyla and her parents in a desk drawer, if she felt someone behind her walking in the woods, or gentle hands on her back as she brooded in the tire swing, Laura feared that Lyla was there, or had been there. Laura became so apprehensive and nervous that any drop of hatred in her body dried up, became hard and heavy, sitting in her chest like a stone, growing mossy, dark black with mold. Some days she could smell damp on her breath, the earthy mushroom scent of that jagged rock in her core, odious and acrid.
On the day she turned eighteen, Laura purged her room of all signs of Lyla. Any picture, any stuffed animal, any book or belt or piece of jewelry. She stuffed the pillow Lyla had crafted into the bottom drawer of her dresser. She put fresh yellow roses on Lyla's empty grave, and promised that she would never worry about a breath on her cheek in the night or a presence behind her as she walked. She went to college, and spent the next four years practicing forgetting her cousin. But she felt the stone in her gut dig deeper, carve out a larger cavity, and sink into her, heavy and unbreakable. She wondered again why she had been born only to hate and hurt.
Out of college and living at home, Laura began again to feel the breath on her cheek as she slept. She dreamed only bad dreams, and spent her days groggy and silent. When she found an old picture of Lyla lying on her dresser, she knew Lyla lived in that house still, and was watching.
Laura moved, when she was twenty-two, across the country, to a sparsely populated island on the eastern shore of Virginia. She lived with an acquaintance of her mother, who was elderly and needed help with housekeeping and grocery shopping. She settled into her small bedroom, into her routine of housework and errands, and thought very seldom of Lyla, or of the stone still nestled inside her. She wrote editorial columns and feature articles for a local paper. She learned to bake soufflé and to play piano. She read at night on the porch, and listened to the distant clamor of gently crashing waves.
She made friends with the locals and spent quiet evenings at the table playing cards and eating cookies. Sometimes, in between sleep and wake, she dreamed of Lyla humming, or sometimes, whispering.
Find me. I'm here. I'm not gone.
Found Friday #9: The Gift of Ghost Stories
October 23, 2020 October 23, 2020 / Katie / 4 Comments
Back in 2016, my friend Liz gave me this book as a housewarming gift.
To be fair, I don't know that it was meant to be a housewarming gift, as both Liz and I love a good ghost story and she just thought I'd enjoy it, but the timing worked out. And it's more special than a "just because" present. It's signed by Frank Raflo, the author.
He passed away in 2009.
I felt like it was time to revisit this book today. After I read it the first time, I tucked it away on my bookshelf and didn't really think much about it. But stories are the gifts that keep on giving, and I thought it would be fun to re-read these, since it's spooky season. There are lots of good stories in this book, but, as it turns out and after reading it today, there's one in particular that I just can't get out of my head.
And next week, I'll tell you why. 😉
*In the meantime, if you'd like to know more about some of the ghost stories I grew up with living in Virginia, I recommend the Ghosts of Virginia books by L.B. Taylor, Jr. I devoured them when I was younger, and I come back to them often.*
About Me (A Poem)
I am under construction –
a permanent, perennial project,
a living labor of love.
A marvel of miraculous engineering
made up of moments and memories,
I am a fleeting, faltering, and flawlessly full of faults
dawdling, dauntless daydreamer.
A confounding collection of curiosities,
a cacophonous convergence of creation,
I am proud to be
(persistently)
(profoundly)
perfectly imperfect.
October Stories #3: A Little Christmas
October 19, 2020 / Katie / 1 Comment
*For the first two posts in this limited series, go here and here.*
I've been working on some version of the story this scene comes from since 2016. It's a story about a house, a family, a legacy, and what it means to come home again. I don't know why I've never finished it. I suspect it's a bit too close to my heart. I've loved and hated writing it, and it's given me more trouble than it will perhaps ever be worth. We'll see.
Enjoy this bit, though, and be sure to check back next week for the last October Stories post! (And thank you for reading!)
The dark tree limbs meandered like streams against a bright midnight sky, black, gnarly rivulets creaking with the howling wind. Tall grasses, waiting to be baled into winding bundles of hay, swayed back and forth. The craggy fields sat silent, waiting for the promise of Christmas snow. How many years since Tess had seen a winter in this hollow?
Eight Christmases away, eight in the bustle and traffic and lights of the city, attending party after party and trying to build some reputation in the world. Wrapped tightly in a sturdy handmade quilt, Tess certainly didn't envy the partygoers now.
As she sat, alone except for Charlie, in front of the glimmering embers of the fireplace, she thought of all of those wasted holidays. How many red velvet cakes had she missed? How many cups of Christmas custard? How lonely, now, the last Taylor woman, waiting along with the empty fields and valleys for that first flake of mountain snow.
From somewhere in the belly of the house, Tess heard a step, a sigh, the creak of a door upstairs. Perhaps not so alone, she thought, and scratched Charlie's wrinkled head.
"Charlie," she whispered, watching his ears perk up and his eyes remain closed. Did he feel it too? This was home, and you're supposed to be home at Christmas. Even the house, standing tall and dark and steady against the winter wind, seemed content to have a Taylor home.
Found Friday #8: The Willow Will Tell
We lay my love and I beneath the weeping willow
But now alone I lie and weep beside the tree
Singing "O willow waly" by the tree that weeps with me
Singing "O willow waly" till my lover return to me
When I was a little girl, I always wanted to have a weeping willow tree in my yard. There were three big willows near a little creek in my neighborhood, and whenever I saw them, I thought they were just the most beautiful trees. I loved to sneak away and sit underneath them and read, even though they were definitely sitting on someone else's property and I was definitely trespassing. Kids don't think about stuff like that.
My mom used to say weeping willows look messy, but I think there's beauty in a certain amount of chaos. I'd be lying if I said the willow on the property wasn't one of the reasons I wanted to buy this house.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend came over and spent some (socially distanced) time on our back patio. As we were chatting and enjoying a fire and some wine on what turned out to be a pretty chilly fall evening, he pointed to the willow in the field. He said that in Persian culture (his culture), the willow tree is a symbol of love, and that there's a term for a willow tree that's gone crazy from being in love, "beed-e majnoon," which translates to "crazy willow." That feels right, doesn't it, for the tree that my mom used to call "messy?"
This week, I watched the first episode of The Haunting of Bly Manor. I perked up a little bit when I heard one of the main characters sing a few lines from "O Willow Waly." It's funny how the universe works sometimes. See, I'd been thinking about our conversation about the willow tree, and I couldn't quite get it out of my head. You know those moments that you just can't shake – like you'll need them for later, like they're not quite done with you yet.
I feel like our willow has a story to tell, one of these days, and that it's my responsibility to tell it, when the time comes.
I wonder what it will be.
Most nights
On the stairwell
Down the hall
I get lots of visitors
October Stories #2: Final Wishes
*If you didn't catch the start of this limited series, check out this post: October Stories #1. If you did and you're back for more, welcome back, and thank you!*
A few years ago, I had a weird dream. This happens frequently, but my dreams usually aren't vivid enough to warrant writing them down. This dream was different, and it inspired me to start the story I'm sharing today. I think about this one from time to time, but I've never come back to it. Maybe one day.
Anyway, enjoy! And come back next week. 😉
To anyone else, the door at the end of the hallway was just that – a door. And not a very interesting one. It was regularly tall, wooden, with panels in the standard places, and a simple brass doorknob. No light peeked out from underneath it, and the usual person looking at it would think, quite reasonably, that it opened to a narrow set of stairs leading up to a dusty old attic filled with boxes and crates brimming with the collected junk of a thousand yesterdays.
Sara Smith, however, and despite her entirely common name, was not a usual person. And her parents knew it.
All parents think their children are special. "Jack rides his tricycle faster than any other boy on the block," a parent might say. "Yes, well, Jane is already writing in cursive and her fingers can barely fit around the pen," another might reply.
Sara's parents, sitting in the parlor with other families sharing lunch or tea, would change the subject. "The weather's been lovely this summer," they might suggest. Or sometimes, "I hear the spring festival this year is supposed to draw twice the normal crowd." The conversation would then move on toward topics unrelated to children and their small but noteworthy accomplishments, at least for the next several minutes, and Bill and Anna Smith would look at each other and breathe two syncopated but inconspicuous sighs of relief.
Because Sara Smith was not a usual child.
Her birth was normal enough, if a bit early. She'd been a normally happy baby. She'd even liked prunes, though when her mother thought of that now, she wondered if it might have been the first sign that something was not quite usual. As Sara had grown, she'd hit her milestones right on schedule. She learned to babble and then to talk, to crawl and then to toddle and then to walk and then to run, to sound words and then to read them, and she'd even broken her arm trying to climb a tree when she was five. She liked unicorns, princesses, coloring books, and, much to her mother's dismay, the color pink.
One night, when Sara was six and three months, and playing in the nursery her parents had set up in the bright, airy attic of their quaint, cozy house, her mother had come up to check on her. In between giggles, she'd heard Sara talking.
"My mommy says it's good to be helpful and to share."
"I don't know how, but I'll try."
"You're welcome. I like your necklace. It's shiny."
"Sara," her mother called, "who are you talking to?"
"The nice old lady," Sara replied. "She wants me to help her."
"With what?" Anna Smith was proud that her daughter was playing at helping.
"She says she's not alive anymore and her son is sad and I should let him know that she's okay and that the combination to the safe is seven seven three nine. That's a really big number, isn't it, Mommy?"
"Yes," Anna replied, "it is." She didn't know what else to say.
Looking back, Bill and Anna Smith always thought of that moment as the one that changed everything, because it was the moment they knew that Sara, their happy, normal, freckled, giggly daughter, could see ghosts.
Sara Smith was not a usual child. And to anyone else, the door at the end of the hallway was just a door. But to Sara Smith, it was the entrance to her very special workshop.
Found Friday #7: The Old Mill
October 9, 2020 October 9, 2020 / Katie / Leave a comment
In case you missed last week's post, I talked about how my house sits along a mill race. The race is small and narrow, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think it was only a creek. The mill, on the other hand, is a bit more…striking. Noticeable? Big. It is big.
You can't miss it. Though you might not realize, if you're just driving by, that it still operates today. It's actually part of NOVA Parks, and you can take a tour, rent the space for events, and watch Mike the Miller at work. The mill also hosts historic reenactments and other educational events, as well as the occasional farm-to-table dinner.
Before we even moved into our house, when we were still under contract and stressing about it, I did a bit of reading on the mill. We'd driven by it several times, but we'd never taken an opportunity to learn more. What better way to distract myself, I thought, than to do some research. (I was an academic kid, and I never grew out of it.) I came across this article, which I won't rehash but will encourage you to read, that tells the mill's story: https://www.loudounhistory.org/history/aldie-mill/. It's a good story. My favorite bit (if it gets you interested) has to do with Civil War soldiers hiding themselves in the wheat from John Mosby and his rangers. (See? You want to read about it now, don't you?)
Anyway, I know I talk a lot about how lucky I feel to live in an area with such a long and rich history, and I probably sound like a broken record. But I think it's important to understand that history is alive.
And this mill is a living piece of Loudoun County's history.


Scoop USA Coup: Scoop Electronic Election Integrity Campaign » Will Ohio's H.I.G.-Owned E-Voting Machines Let Romney Win?
Electronic voting machines owned by Mitt Romney's business buddies and set to count the votes in Cincinnati could decide the 2012 election. The narrative is already being hyped by the corporate media.
Will Ohio's H.I.G.-Owned E-Voting Machines Give Romney the White House?
Electronic voting machines owned by Mitt Romney's business buddies and set to count the votes in Cincinnati could decide the 2012 election.
The narrative is already being hyped by the corporate media. As Kelly O'Donnell reported for NBC's Today Show on Monday, October 8, Ohio's Hamilton County is "ground zero" for deciding who holds the White House come January, 2013.
O'Donnell pointed out that no candidate has won the White House without carrying Ohio since John Kennedy did it in 1960. No Republican has EVER won the White House without Ohio's electoral votes.
As we document in the e-book WILL THE GOP STEAL AMERICA'S 2012 ELECTION (www.freepress.org) George W. Bush got a second term in 2004 thanks to the manipulation of the electronic vote count by Ohio's then-Secretary of State J. Kenneth Blackwell. Blackwell served as the co-chair of the state's committee to re-elect Bush/Cheney while simultaneously administering the election.
The widespread use of electronic voting machines from ES&S, and of Diebold software maintained by Triad, allowed Blackwell to electronically flip a 4% Kerry lead to a 2% Bush victory in the dead of election night. ES&S, Diebold and Triad were all owned or operated by Republican partisans. The shift of more than 300,000 votes after 12:20 am election night was a virtual statistical impossibility. It was engineered by Michael Connell, an IT specialist long affiliated with the Bush Family. Blackwell gave Connell's Ohio-based GovTech the contract to count Ohio's votes, which was done on servers housed in the Old Pioneer Bank Building in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Thus the Ohio vote tally was done on servers that also carried the e-mail for Karl Rove and the national Republican Party. Connell died in a mysterious plane crash in December, 2008, after being subpoenaed in the King-Lincoln-Bronzeville federal lawsuit focused on how the 2004 election was decided (disclosure: we were attorney and plaintiff in that suit).
Diebold's founder, Walden O'Dell, had vowed to deliver Ohio's electoral votes—and thus the presidency—to his friend George W. Bush. That it was done in part on electronic voting machines and software O'Dell happened to own (Diebold has since changed hands twice) remains a cautionary red flag for those who believe merely winning the popular vote will give Barack Obama a second term.
This November, much of the Ohio electorate will cast its ballots on machines again owned by close cronies of the Republican presidential candidate. In Cincinnati and elsewhere around the state, the e-voting apparati are owned by Hart Intercivic. Hart's machines are infamous for mechanical failures, "glitches," counting errors and other timely problems now thoroughly identified with the way Republicans steal elections. As in 2004, Ohio's governor is now a Republican. This time it's the very right-wing John Kasich, himself a multi-millionaire courtesy of a stint at Lehman Brothers selling state bonds, and the largesse of Rupert Murdoch, on whose Fox Network Kasich served as a late night bloviator. Murdoch wrote Kasich a game-changing $1 million check just prior to his winning the statehouse, an electoral victory shrouded in electronic intrigue. The exit polls in that election indicated that his opponent, incumbent Democrat Ted Strickland, had actually won the popular vote.
So as the corporate media swarm through Ohio, reporting breathlessly from "ground zero" in Cincinnati, don't hold your own breath waiting for them to also clarify that the voting machines in what may once again be America's decisive swing state are owned, programmed and tabulated by some of the Romney campaign's closest associates.
Bob Fitrakis and Harvey Wasserman are co-authors of WILL THE GOP STEAL AMERICA'S 2012 ELECTION? an e-book at http://freepress.org/store.php#a2012.


text:
The Trumpet Creeper
With its impressive bulk and those stunning tubular red flowers, one would be excused for thinking that the trumpet creeper (Campsis radicans) was a tropical vine. Indeed, the family to which it belongs, Bignoniaceae, is largely tropical in its distribution. There are a handful of temperate representatives, however, and the trumpet creeper is one of the most popular. Its beauty aside, this plant is absolutely fascinating.
As many of you probably know, the trumpet creeper can reach massive proportions. In the garden, this can often result in collapsed structures as its weight and speed of growth is something few adequately prepare for. In the wild, I most often see this vine in somewhat disturbed forests, usually near a floodplain. As such, it is supremely adapted to take a hit and keep on growing year after year.
One of the many reasons this plant performs so well both where it is native and where it is not is that it recruits body guards. This is easy to witness in a garden setting as the branches and especially the flowers are frequently crawling with ants. Trumpet creepers trade food for protection via specialized organs called extrafloral nectaries. These structures secrete sugary nectar that is readily sucked up by tenacious ants. When a worker ant finds a vine, more workers are soon to follow.
Amazingly for a temperate plant, trumpet creepers produce more extrafloral nectaries of all four categories - petiole, calyx, corolla, and fruit. What this means is that all of the important organs are covered in insects that viciously attack anything that might threaten this sugary food supply. Hassle one of these vines at your own peril. With its photosynthetic and reproductive structures protected, trumpet creepers make a nice living once established.
Reproduction is another fascinating aspect of trumpet creeper biology. A closer inspection of the floral anatomy will reveal a bilobed stigma. Amazingly, this stigma has the ability to open and close as potential pollinators visit the flowers. Stigmatic movement in the trumpet creeper has attracted a bit of attention from researchers over the years. What is its function?
Evidence suggests that the opening and closing of the lobed stigma is way of increasing the chances of pollination. Touch alone is not enough to trigger the movement. However, when researchers dusted pollen onto the stigma, then it began to close. What's more, this action happens within 15 to 60 seconds. Amazingly, there appears to be a threshold to whether the stigma stays closed or reopens after 3 hours or so.
It turns out, the threshold seems to depend on the amount of pollen being deposited. Only after 350 grains found their way onto the stigma did it close permanently. Experts feel that this a means by which the plant ensured ample seed set. If too few pollen grains end up on the stigma, the plant risks not having all of its ovules fertilized. By permanently closing after enough pollen grains are present, the plant can ensure that the pollen grains can germinate and fertilize the ovules without being brushed off.
It is interesting to note that the flowers frequently remain on the plant after they have been fertilized. This likely serves to maintain a largely floral display that continues to attract pollinators until most of the flowers have been pollinated. Speaking of pollinators, observations have revealed that the trumpet creeper is pollinated primarily by ruby-throated hummingbirds. Although insects like bumblebees frequently visit these blooms, bringing pollen with them in the process, hummingbirds, on average, bring and deposit 10 times as much pollen as any other visitor. And, considering the threshold on pollen mentioned above, trumpet creeper appears to have evolved a pollination syndrome with these lovely little birds.
Photo Credits: [1] [2] [3] [4]
Further Reading: [1] [2] [3] [4]
In Pollination, Insects Tags campsis radicans, plant movement, Extrafloral nectaries, campsis, trumpet creeper, hummingbird pollination, pollination
The Curious Case of a Dancing Plant
Plants aren't generally known for their speed. They tend to move at rates we simply can't perceive. The few species that exhibit rapid movements such as the sensitive plant (Mimosa pudica) and the Venus fly trap (Dionaea muscipula) have become quite famous as a result. Such movements happen in fits and bursts. These plants certainly cannot maintain such activity. However, there is another plant out there whose activity puts these other plants to shame.
Meet the telegraph plant. It has gone by a handful of scientific names since its discovery (Desmodium motorium, D. gyrans, Hedysarum gyrans, Codariocalyx motorius) but that's not why its famous. This Asian legume is renown for its maneuvers. Its compound leaves are surprisingly active organs. The larger terminal leaflets move up and down throughout the course of a day but its smaller lateral leaflets exhibit rhythmic movements on the scale of minutes.
Perhaps most famously, the leaflets show an increase in movement when exposed to music. Search the web and you will find lots of videos of the telegraph plant "dancing" to a variety of musical styles. Though entertaining, music is not why this plant moves. Having evolved long before music was ever invented, its movement must have its roots in something a bit more natural. However, despite how popular such motion has made this species over the past few centuries, their its function has remained a bit of a mystery.
Before we get into the theories, let's take a closer look at exactly how this plant moves. At the base of its leaflets there sits a ring of cells called the "pulvinus." They act a bit like water balloons and thanks to some dedicated work, it has been found that, when stimulated, these cells can quickly move water in and out via osmosis. This causes the cells to either swell or deflate and this is where the movement originates. Now, onto the why...
A relatively recent opinion piece puts forth some of the most interesting theories on telegraph plant movement yet. The author suggests that leaflet movements are defensive in nature. They believe that the leaves could be mimicking butterfly (or some other winged arthropod movements). In doing so, it may convince gravid female insects that this individual plant is already occupied. Such strategies do indeed exist in some plant species, though via physical adornments rather than movements. Another theory this author puts forth is that their movements could also attract potential predators. By mimicking the movement of a tasty insect, it could entice birds to come in to take a closer look. Once there, they could easily find other herbivores hiding on the plant.
Another possibility related to defense is that the movements are meant to deter herbivory altogether. Studies on other plants have shown that some species can actually detect the vibrations of an insect chewing on leaves, which signals to the plant to uptick the production of defense compounds. Perhaps when sensing vibration, the telegraph plant increases its movements to knock away a hungry insect. Certainly a moving meal is less appealing than a stationary one. This is also thought to be the reason for rapid leaflet closure in sensitive plants. Hungry insects have a hard time hanging on to a plant when the leaf suddenly collapses from underneath it.
Another hypothesis is that these movements are meant to increase sun exposure. It has been discovered that far from only responding to music, the leaflets move throughout the day depending on temperature. When temperatures are low, leaflet movements are more vigorous. They eventually slow down if temperatures are high enough. This hypothesis is bolstered by the fact that movements cease once the sun goes down. In a sense, the leaflets seem to be using temperature as a means of detecting whether or not they are getting as much sun on them as possible.
In reality, it very well could be a mix of these ideas. Natural selection works like that. In the end, movement of the leaflets has certainly benefited the telegraph plant whether it be fore defense or just to take advantage of as much sun as possible. Despite centuries of popularity, this awesome little legume still has some secrets tucked away and I kind of like that about it.
NOTE: The image at the top of this page is of a time lapse and does not represent actual speed.
Photo Credit: [1]
In Evolution, plant defenses Tags telegraph plant, plant movement, desmodium motorium, desmodium gryans, hedysarum gryans, codariocalyx motorius, semaphore plant

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


We live in an age when modern science is just beginning to catch up with indigenous science—when the understanding that we dwell in a living universe is beginning to transform how we perform our inquiry into the world around us.
It's in this context that we will explore both the deep roots of animism as a universal human value system, and the inquiry that this generates. With support from cutting-edge science in the world of physics, and ancient modes of inquiry (such as tracking), we'll discover just how brilliant and insightful traditional cultures were and still are today, and how we can create a bridge from the modern mythology of science and technology across the gap towards truly belonging to the mothering earth.
What does the Constructal Law, a new first principle of physics, have to teach us? Where did it come from? How is it changing science?
How do our perceptions of emotion and behavior change if we begin by analyzing only motivations that exist in the immediate moment, with no conception of the future or past? How can this change our relationships with each other, with animal companions, and the wildlife around us?
How do the complexity sciences inform how we inquire into the natural world? What premises allow us to model complex adaptive systems? How can we incorporate them into our daily lives?
How is tracking a tool for rewilding our own inquiry and citizen science? What innovations are already emerging from this exploration?
Willem Larsen is a tracker, educator, and writer, author of The Language Hunter's Kit, coauthor of The Five Rules of Accelerated Learning, founder of the nonprofit Language Hunters, host of the Thermodynamics of Emotion Symposium, and director of the College of Mythic Cartography. He was a founding board member of Rewild Portland and continues to serve the organization as a consultant and occasional instructor.


Samsung has done well so far with the Galaxy S10 that they launched back in February this year, along with that the company also released the Galaxy Fold. The Samsung Galaxy Fold might not be that of a finished product and the market seems to be immature about it or not ready for it yet but the market is surely ready for the next Note flagship phone. A piece of recent news suggests the possible model numbers for the upcoming Galaxy Note 10.
According to the sources, the upcoming Samsung Galaxy Note 10 will debut in two models, the Galaxy Note 10 and Galaxy Note 10+. The regular Note 10's model number will be SM-N970 and its big brother Note 10+'s model number will be SM-N975.
There will also be a 5G variant of the phones and the model number will be SM-N91 and SM-N976.
The Samsung Galaxy Note 10 is speculated to come with a 6.28-inch Super AMOLED display and the Note 10+ with a larger 6.75-inch Super AMOLED display. The 5G variant of the phone will come with supported hardware for it and it is said to be expensive. Whereas the regular Note 10 and Note 10+ will also come with a premium price tag but will be cheaper than the 5G variants.
Stay Tuned for more updates on Samsung Galaxy Note 10 and also Subscribe to Our YouTube Channel Gadget Gig For Latest News, Reviews, Unboxing and Tips/Tricks.


Anyone have any ideas on viable tank mates for an already somewhat territorial Golden severum? He's about 3-4 inches. He gets along wonderfully with his current tank mates. Just hasn't always taken well to new additions (those being his size or bigger) Based on previous advice, I am going to attempt to remove the severum, change the tank around, add the new fish(s) and then put the severum back in.
I have deleted the other topic in General Fishkeeping as this topic is in the appropriate board.
If you haven't already discovered the community creator it is a great tool to get ideas on suitability and compatibility with your tank and of course other tank mates.
You need to send a request for a password and use the email you created your Thinkfish profile with as the login username.
Looking at your other thread, you've tried a blood parrot (severum bullied it) and a convict (bullied the severum).
Even with moving the decor round I would be reluctant to try another cichlid as those are what the severum has problems with. Maybe try again if you get that bigger tank you mention in the other thread.
Its not really suitable for tanks less than 48″ x 18″ x 18″ (120cm x 45cm x 45cm) – 243 litres in size.
You currently have a 55 gall tank. If that's American galls, it's 208 litres; if it's Imperial galls, that's 250 litres.
The sev is behaving like this because it is stressed as its tank isn't big enough. Even if your galls are Imperial, the tank is the minimum size the sev needs. Fish often behave against type when they are stressed, becoming either more aggressive or more timid.
I would not get any more cichlids until you have upgraded to the 100 galls you mention in your other thread. But you do have room for non-cichlids. Using the Community Creator and 209 litres (ie 55 US galls), you have a lot of 'unused' space. In the fish profiles, rainbow shark is called ruby shark and skirt tetras are black widow tetras (just different colours of Gymnocorymbus ternetzi).
[I used American galls in the CC as they are more common in fish keeping].
Until you upgrade, personally I'd get more white skirts (white widows) and maybe 10 to 12 of another shoaling species. But I would wait until after the upgrade before trying more cichlids.
PS - are you located in the USA? I just wonder as you give tank sizes in galls rather than litres and you call your tetras white skirts rather than white widows.
@Sue, I definitely agree that another cichlid isn't in the cards at the moment. On the other hand, what you are reading about the tank size sevs need is probably referring to a full grown sev. My sev is very small at the moment and I really don't feel is 'stressed' in his grow out tank. He is about the same size (maybe a little bigger) as my gourami and he does fine with him. But I do agree that it seems to be too small in terms of another cichlid in the tank.
After doing a bunch more research, I think I have decided to do exactly what you said. My current plan is to get more white widows to complete that shoal.
As far as added another shoal of something, do you have any recommendations? Maybe another tetra species, or is there something that would be a better addition?
Also, yes I do live in the US.
Sevs and tetras are soft water so I assume you have soft water? If so, most tetras above 2 inches should be OK. Nothing small enough for the sev to eat when it is fully grown. If you don't mind about having fish from different areas of the world (and you already have some Asian fish) maybe barbs, though check on the nippiness of a species since you have a gourami.
The water here isn't really too soft but I do try my best to make it as soft as possible, I also have some malaysian wood in there which helps with my pH.
Since my white tetras have been doing so well since I set this tank up in january, I think I may just stick with them. I'll probably add some more white tetras and then try some black ones too just for a change or color. I also thought about buenos aires tetras but they tend to get a little bigger don't they? I've had barbs before and they were just too active and nippy for my taste.
You could always get some black skirt (black widow) tetras as they are the same species - Gymnocorymbus ternetzi - so they should get on. Rosy tetras (Hyphessobrycon rosaceus) or red phantom tetras (Hyphessobrycon sweglesi) would be OK if you wanted more colour. A biggish shoal should avoid nippiness problems. Or perhaps emperor tetras (Nematobrycon palmeri).
Seriously Fish reckons a tank of 90 x 30 cm (36 x 12 inches) minimum for buenos aires tetras so they are do-able in your 55 gall, and definitely in the upgrade if you want to wait that long.
Topics that relate to "Gold severum tank mates"


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text:
Q: How to get react component with useReducer to rerender after axios call? I am trying to learn state management with the useReducer hook so I have built a simple app that calls the pokeAPI. The app should display a random pokemon, and add more pokemons to the screen as the 'capture another' button is pressed.
However, it rerenders the component with the initialized and empty Card object before populating the Card from the axios call. I've tried at least 3 different solutions based on posts from stackoverflow.
In each attempt I have gotten the same result: the app displays an undefined card on, even though the state is updated and not undefined, it just was updated slightly after the rerendering. When clicked again that prior undefined gets properly rendered but there is now a new card displayed as undefined.
I am still getting the hang of react hooks (no pun intended!), async programming, and JS in general.
Here is the app:
https://stackblitz.com/edit/react-ts-mswxjv?file=index.tsx
Here is the code from my first try:
//index.tsx

const getRandomPokemon = (): Card => {
  var randomInt: string;
  randomInt = String(Math.floor(898 * Math.random()));
  let newCard: Card = {};
  PokemonDataService.getCard(randomInt)
    .then((response) => {
        //omitted for brevity
    })
    .catch((error) => {
      //omitted
    });

  PokemonDataService.getSpecies(randomInt)
    .then((response) => {
      //omitted
    })
    .catch((error) => {
      //omitted
    });
  return newCard;
};

const App = (props: AppProps) => {
  const [deck, dispatch] = useReducer(cardReducer, initialState);

function addCard() {
    let newCard: Card = getRandomPokemon();
    dispatch({
      type: ActionKind.Add,
      payload: newCard,
    });
  }
  return (

      <Deck deck={deck} />
      <CatchButton onClick={addCard}>Catch Another</CatchButton>

  );
};

//cardReducer.tsx
export function cardReducer(state: Card[], action: Action): Card[] {
  switch (action.type) {
    case ActionKind.Add: {
      let clonedState: Card[] = state.map((item) => {
        return { ...item };
      });
      clonedState = [...clonedState, action.payload];
      return clonedState;
    }
    default: {
      let clonedState: Card[] = state.map((item) => {
        return { ...item };
      });
      return clonedState;
    }
  }
}

//Deck.tsx
//PokeDeck and PokeCard are styled-components for a ul and li
export const Deck = ({ deck }: DeckProps) => {
  useEffect(() => {
    console.log(`useEffect called in Deck`);
  }, deck);

  return (
    <PokeDeck>
      {deck.map((card) => (
        <PokeCard>
          <img src={card.image} alt={`image of ${card.name}`} />

{card.name}

        </PokeCard>
      ))}
    </PokeDeck>
  );
};

I also experimented with making the function that calls Axios a promise so I could chain the dispatch call with a .then.
//index.tsx
function pokemonPromise(): Promise<Card> {
  var randomInt: string;
  randomInt = String(Math.floor(898 * Math.random()));
  let newCard: Card = {};
  PokemonDataService.getCard(randomInt)
    .then((response) => {
      // omitted
    })
    .catch((error) => {
      return new Promise((reject) => {
        reject(new Error('pokeAPI call died'));
      });
    });

  PokemonDataService.getSpecies(randomInt)
    .then((response) => {
        // omitted
    })
    .catch((error) => {
      return new Promise((reject) => {
        reject(new Error('pokeAPI call died'));
      });
    });
  return new Promise((resolve) => {
    resolve(newCard);
  });
}

const App = (props: AppProps) => {
  const [deck, dispatch] = useReducer(cardReducer, initialState);

  function asyncAdd() {
    let newCard: Card;
    pokemonPromise()
      .then((response) => {
        newCard = response;
        console.log(newCard);
      })
      .then(() => {
        dispatch({
          type: ActionKind.Add,
          payload: newCard,
        });
      })
      .catch((err) => {
        console.log(`asyncAdd failed with the error \n ${err}`);
      });
  }

  return (

      <Deck deck={deck} />
      <CatchButton onClick={asyncAdd}>Catch Another</CatchButton>

  );
};

I also tried to have it call it with a side effect using useEffect hook
//App.tsx
const App = (props: AppProps) => {
  const [deck, dispatch] = useReducer(cardReducer, initialState);
  const [catchCount, setCatchCount] = useState(0);

  useEffect(() => {
    let newCard: Card;
    pokemonPromise()
      .then((response) => {
        newCard = response;
      })
      .then(() => {
        dispatch({
          type: ActionKind.Add,
          payload: newCard,
        });
      })
      .catch((err) => {
        console.log(`asyncAdd failed with the error \n ${err}`);
      });
  }, [catchCount]);

   return (

      <Deck deck={deck} />
      <CatchButton onClick={()=>{setCatchCount(catchCount + 1)}>Catch Another</CatchButton>

  );
};

A: So there are a couple of things with your code, but the last version is closest to being correct. Generally you want promise calls inside useEffect. If you want it to be called once, use an empty [] dependency array. https://reactjs.org/docs/hooks-effect.html (ctrl+f "once" and read the note, it's not that visible). Anytime the dep array changes, the code will be run.
Note: you'll have to change the calls to the Pokemon service as you're running two async calls without awaiting either of them. You need to make getRandomPokemon async and await both calls, then return the result you want. (Also you're returning newCard but not assigning anything to it in the call). First test this by returning a fake data in a promise like my sample code then integrate the api if you're having issues.
In your promise, it returns a Card which you can use directly in the dispatch (from the response, you don't need the extra step). Your onclick is also incorrectly written with the brackets. Here's some sample code that I've written and seems to work (with placeholder functions):
type Card = { no: number };
function someDataFetch(): Promise<void> {
  return new Promise((resolve) => setTimeout(() => resolve(), 1000));
}
async function pokemonPromise(count: number): Promise<Card> {
  await someDataFetch();
  console.log("done first fetch");
  await someDataFetch();
  console.log("done second fetch");
  return new Promise((resolve) =>
    setTimeout(() => resolve({ no: count }), 1000)
  );
}

const initialState = { name: "pikachu" };
const cardReducer = (
  state: typeof initialState,
  action: { type: string; payload: Card }
) => {
  return { ...state, name: `pikachu:${action.payload.no}` };
};

//App.tsx
const App = () => {
  const [deck, dispatch] = useReducer(cardReducer, initialState);
  const [catchCount, setCatchCount] = useState(0);
  useEffect(() => {
    pokemonPromise(catchCount)
      .then((newCard) => {
        dispatch({
          type: "ActionKind.Add",
          payload: newCard
        });
      })
      .catch((err) => {
        console.log(`asyncAdd failed with the error \n ${err}`);
      });
  }, [catchCount]);

  return (

      {deck.name}
      <button onClick={() => setCatchCount(catchCount + 1)}>
        Catch Another
      </button>

  );
};

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New York Life, Spectrum, others seek hires at…
New York Life, Spectrum, others seek hires at upcoming Ontario job fair
The Inland Empire continues to show strong job prospects, with 2.5% more people on payrolls year over year.
Employers at the Ontario job fair will be looking to hire workers in human resources management, mortgage brokerage, financial planning and retail staffing and management. Other employers expected to participate include Goettl Air Conditioning and Crown Lift Trucks, HireLive said in a statement. (MARK RIGHTMIRE, ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER)
By Jack Katzanek | jkatzanek@scng.com |
PUBLISHED: October 7, 2019 at 1:37 p.m. | UPDATED: October 7, 2019 at 1:40 p.m.
Several companies with national footprints, including New York Life and Spectrum, will participate in HireLive's career fair Wednesday, Oct 9 in Ontario.
Employers will be looking to hire workers in a number of job sectors, including human resources management, mortgage brokerage, financial planning and retail staffing and management. Other employers expected to participate include Goettl Air Conditioning and Crown Lift Trucks, HireLive said in a statement.
The event, from 9:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m., will be held at the Doubletree Hotel, 222 North Vineyard Ave.
The most recent state report indicates a strong job market in the Inland Empire, with 2.5% more people on payrolls in August vs. August 2018. Unemployment was at 4.4%, down from 4.6% the previous month and from 12 months ago.
Many employers say they often struggle to find willing workers. In the Inland area, companies have to compete with counterparts in Los Angeles and Orange counties, which typically pay more for the same work. Nationally, studies show there are 6 million Americans listed as unemployed and 7.3 unfilled positions.
Job-hunters attending Wednesday's event are advised to wear business attire and bring at least 10 résumés. Parking at the hotel is free.
Jack Katzanek | Reporter
I left my hometown of New York City in 1981 to take a job on a weekly paper in Ordway Colorado, a prairie town of 1,200. This made me the ultimate fish-out-of-water. I have since covered sports in Miles City, Montana; crime, courts, government and education in Napa , California,and gaming in Las Vegas, all before becoming a business reporter and editor in 1996. In that capacity I have worked at the Santa Clarita Signal, the Inland Valley daily Bulletin, and the Press-Enterprise. I joined the PE in 2000, left in 2014 and rejoined in 2018.
jkatzanek@scng.com
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