The Swamp Road Chronicles®
"Lacey"
Dear Swamp Road Chronicles,
Thank you for the opportunity to tell someone about my personal
experiences associated with Swamp Road Sally.
I have needed to share this with someone for a very long time now.
I've always known about Swamp Road Sally; as I was growing up, my
parents, aunts and uncles would often share stories among themselves of their
experiences on Swamp Road. No Christmas
dinner, Easter luncheon or after-funeral gathering would be complete without
some re-telling of a Swamp Road Sally encounter.
As I understand the story, the basic facts are that in 1901 Sally's
mother apparently went mad and killed her entire family with an axe. She then hanged herself. The body of one of her children was never
found, though she was presumed to have died by exposure or drowning in the
swamp surrounding the family's home.
That missing child was Sally Blackstone.
I was familiar with the narrow lane that went back to where the remains of
the old Blackstone homestead lay in the weeds.
I knew the quiet serenity to be found there. I had sometimes gone there when in need of
solitude. Lying on my back looking up
into the endless sky, watching the white puffy clouds drift away gave me peace.
One sunny afternoon while sitting and gazing into the water, listening
to the droning of nearby bees on flowering spearmint and watching the minnows,
frogs and dragonflies pursuing their occupations, I noticed something unusual
slightly protruding from the sloping stream-side soil a few feet down the bank
toward the water. Ivory-colored, smooth
and round, I thought it might be a bone or even a skull. Curious, I edged down the bank and dug around
the object to uncover what it was.
To my surprise and delight I found a very old, stained porcelain doll's
head. Her surface was crazed with
hundreds of tiny cracks in the ceramic glaze, but her green eyes, always open,
were beautiful. She had four snow-white
teeth visible through her slightly parted, faintly pink lips. Her pleasant expression and soft brown
porcelain hair maintained a sweet, delicate loveliness despite an apparent
extended time buried in the dirt. I was
enchanted.
Knowing the sad history of the Blackstone children who had resided at
this lonely spot, I wondered if this could have been a toy of theirs, perhaps
even Sally's. It appeared to me to be of
an appropriate style and age, but I'm no expert. I took the doll's head home with me. I started to tell you that taking it home had
been a mistake, but it's not that simple.
No, it's not that simple at all.
At my kitchen sink, I carefully cleaned the doll's head; I gently
brushed the years of grime away with soap and warm water. The cleaner she grew, the more beautiful she
appeared. She had a truly lovely
face. The child who owned her would have
loved her deeply. "How did she end
up in the dirt?", I wondered.
I imagined several scenarios: perhaps the family had been suddenly
evicted by weather or landlord. Perhaps
she had been hidden away 'til she could be retrieved later. Perhaps grieving parents had buried the doll
out of respect for a child no longer alive to play with it. I also wondered if Sally had been sleeping
with her doll and someone had it wrenched from her little hands on the night
she disappeared. Every imagined
possibility left me feeling sad; I couldn't think of any happy reason for a child to part with such a remarkable companion.
During lunch at work, I told a friend about my find. She said that there might be a serial number
impressed on the back of the doll's head that could identify the maker and date
of the doll's creation. When I got home
I eagerly checked. Yes! It was hard to
see, but there was indeed a serial number to be found there. With my strongest dollar store reading
glasses I could make out: L 1/2 Made in Germany; 15 1/2 171 6. Using this information, and trips to the
library to inquire of doll collector books, I was able to discover that she had
been made in Germany by a company called Kestner about
1900. The death of Sally's family and
her disappearance occurred in 1901.
Though there was no proof, I somehow knew I had discovered the
remains of Swamp Road Sally's doll.
I kept the doll's head (I had begun to call her 'Lacey') in a nook at
the upper right hand corner of my ancient roll-top desk. As I worked there I would glance at her from
time to time and she seemed to be sympathetic when I was harried, and
reassuring when I was feeling inadequate, in short, over a period of several
months, she became my friend and confidant.
I could talk to her about anything and she never appeared to
judge me. In a world where everyone
seemed to be uncaring and self-absorbed she was my comforter. I began to look forward to going home after
work to see her. I began to spend
evenings at home much more than I had previously done. My friends would call and invite me to go to
the theater with them or to dinner, but I increasingly excused myself from
every invitation and eventually, the invitations ceased. I was quite content to spend quiet evenings
at home with Lacey.
It seems strange to me that I haven't thought to mention it until now,
but during those many months I have been describing, I had been engaged to a
lovely young woman. Her name escapes me
right now. We were to be married in the
spring but she felt that I was drifting away from her. She said I didn't call her as much, and I had
ceased sending her notes or flowers or other tokens of my affection. She had become concerned about the direction
of our relationship and pleaded to know the cause. She suspected another woman had seized my
attention. Looking back, I know now that
she was right, in a way.
I tried to explain as, truthfully as I could, how I simply found great
satisfaction in staying at home in the evenings. I assured her that I still loved her, and I
did, I guess. She could be demanding,
though, wanting me to call her, and take her out to dinner and constantly be
showing her proofs of my affection. It
all became very tiring. I couldn't
understand the allure of going out when one had everything one needed in one's
flat. One afternoon after a rather
emotional call (on her part, at least) she said she had endured enough and
needed a man who wanted to spend time with her.
I never did tell her about Lacey, I don't think she would have
understood. Frankly, her breaking off
our relationship came as quite a relief to me.
I felt somehow unburdened. I
smiled to myself and as I glanced up at Lacey, she seemed to be smiling too.
My life had entered into a kind of “Golden Age”. My world was peaceful, with no demands upon
my time, except my job at the bank, of course.
Even at the bank, however, my thoughts were always at home with
Lacey. Though the hours away from her
dragged slowly by, I was always cheered by the sure knowledge that she would be
there waiting, patiently, for my return.
I was happy and satisfied with my life and for the first time, really, I
was satisfied with myself as well. The
world seemed warm and friendly and calm. Life was very, very good.
Oh, if I had the words to describe the bliss of the many hours spent
with Lacey when we talked about art and music and literature. True, I did most of the talking, but Lacey
was such an attentive listener she seemed as much a participant in the
discussion as I was. The hours would fly
by; I was always surprised to find how early it had become late. Such was my joy. There were times when I could sense that she
disagreed with me on a topic and even, sometimes, I think she became a little
put-out with me, though those times were rare.
She is a strong-willed woman with a mind of her own.
One day I was detained at the bank with some urgent paperwork that had
to be carefully completed; the State's Bank Auditor was coming the next day to
review the bank's books. I had no choice
but to work late. When I finally arrived
home Lacey expressed great displeasure with me and demanded to know where I had
been, I explained, but she glared at me for the rest of the evening. When she's
unhappy, I'm unhappy.
Sometimes, when I was working at my computer, Lacey
would suggest that it was time to take a break.
"Why not explore some of the websites on the internet that might be
interesting?", she suggested. At first we watched videos about kittens
being cute, then gradually, we moved to videos of people doing stupid things
and getting hurt. Car crashes and bomb
victims were soon replaced by videos of suicides and then beheadings. Such things, at first, made me uneasy, but
Lacey really seemed to enjoy them, and I wanted her to be happy.
It is not very difficult to uncover sites on the
“Dark Web” that depict horrible things being done to innocent people and
animals as well. Every perversion, every
sadistic and twisted fantasy is available to be seen and heard in the dark
corners of the web, if you look for them.
We had begun to watch such videos and I enjoyed it. Somehow, the migration, as it were, into
those evil and barbaric places seemed 'normal'.
Lacey expressed her delight and support every step we moved further down
into that realm of evil; I was, however, oblivious to my moral descent.
It has now gotten to the point where we cruise Swamp
Road and other remote country lanes looking for…
Sorry, Lacey is calling me from the next room; I'll
try to share more another time.
As submitted 10-31-2021 by Anonymous.
© Copyright 1992-2023, Randal Lenn Hall, All Rights Reserved.