Jack_Maegli
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The Ghost of Beckman Mill: You hear much about “Lucy 7” in Beloit as a historical exemplification of a young female rising to prosperity from simple agricultural roots; but not so much of those with a less happy ending. Such is the case of Miley Jenkins, the daughter of a farmer from nearby Avon. Miley worked at the Beckman mill in the late 19th century and after an unexpected teenage pregnancy was promised marriage by her love Benjamin Fitzgerald, the son of prominent Judge John C. Fitzgerald of Monroe. Benjamin’s mother Abigail however forbade such a thing to what she called a white trash farmer’s daughter. Shortly thereafter Miley fell into the grinding stone that turned grain to flour at the mill with her unborn son. The river that powered the mill ran red with her blood upon exit, and the most beautiful lilies bloomed downstream for years afterward. Her death was ruled an accident, as suicide was not an accepted cause on a coroner’s report during the time. Only bits and pieces of this story remain in old torn newspapers that now occupy the depths of local landfills. But as a visiting photographer of the Beckman Mill historical site, I feel close to her story as I am occasionally offered a gratuitous appearance. Unseen at the time, here is an example of her presence that only shows after developing the picture taken.
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The tinker faery Camila: In exchange for providing a prairie flower garden nearby and some hollow logs to decorate and find shelter, the friendly tinker faery Camila repays us by defending against the carpenter ants that invade and consume the wood piles designated to warm our house for the coming winters. I heard through the grapevine that she also runs a food truck at the local Faery Tinker Circus featuring chocolate covered ant eggs. I congratulate any additional benefit she derives from our relationship due her industrialist spirit, but sometimes find her wearing jewelry and other bling that disappear from the house.
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A hopeful reunion with this caretaker of the summer swamps is what endures the frogs and other inhabitants during the at times cruel hibernation of winter. Not being of hardened stock to withstand the cutting winds of a winters night, she flies south with the hummingbirds as the cold clutches the land. Even us less affected human folk in the seasonal North eventually look forward to the spring equinox and the chapter of rejuvenation of life it brings to the land. The unexplained sparkle of light that appears in the corner of our eyes during a spring bog hike could likely be the faery dust she leaves behind in flight upon return to the land.
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