Last night I realized what my house's name is. I'd been wondering when it'd hit me, and staying patient - figuring that it'd settle into something that felt right one of these days. Not a "manor" or a "hall," certainly; the place isn't big enough to warrant such a designation. But with 3 bedrooms and 2 baths, it's too big to be a nook or cottage, either. Maybe a croft, given that we're right on the mountain's edge, or perhaps a loft or nest - with the woods right there behind us.

Back in Seattle, my friend Suezie said that the Tennessee house should have a name relating to Briar Wilkes, or Boneshaker - since that's what's paying for the place. I agreed, but couldn't think of a good way to work it in.

In the end, it worked itself in. Sort of.

We have roses here. Several smaller plants and a veritable tree of a thing - none of which were in very good shape when we arrived. The littler jobbies were relatively easy to save; they were undernourished and choked with spider mites, both problems that were a simple fix. It only took a couple of weeks to bring them back to full glory.

But the larger bush - the sprawling rambler the size of a shed - had both of those problems and God knew what others besides. It was a raggedy, moth-eaten looking piece of work, and at first I halfway thought it was dead or dying.

(Furthermore, it was much harder to assist, as it was blocked in by a jungle of overgrown daisies. No seriously. They were so thick they'd fallen over and formed an impenetrable swath of ground cover almost two feet thick. The damn things were choking everything in every direction for a couple of yards.)

But shortly after our arrival, I trimmed back some of the most bedraggled bits and began treating the tree with an anti-fungal and insecticide, and giving it some hearty doses of good food and water. And just recently - maybe within the last few days, even - it's started putting out healthy new growth. Ladies, gents, and the otherwise affiliated ... I think it's going to be all right. I certainly hope so. I'd love to see it bloom.

(The smaller roses are red and a peachy-pink. I wonder what color the Big Guy puts out.)

Anyway. While on an unrelated internet surfing mission last night, I found myself checking out Old English prefixes and suffixes (don't ask) ... and came across "bury" as a suffix meaning "fortified," or "guarded." And just like that, the house had a name.

She is Rosebury Haunt.

She is fortified with brambles, briars, and blooms - and haunted by yours truly for the foreseeable future. So don't give me any shit about the "haunt" bit. I'm an old goth. This is an old house. Let it never be said that I was afraid of going cheesy.

So is Rosebury Haunt ... haunted? If so, it's a gentle kind of haunting thus far. Nothing goes bump in the night except the ice maker in the fridge, and there are no dark corners where the kitty fears to tread.

But we are on a haunted parcel; a hundred and fifty years ago, soldiers fought and died here - all along these blocks, up and down this valley - scrambling for control of the mountain behind us. A couple thousand men never made it home.*

So who am I to say?

* * *

Speaking of haunts and hauntings ... ever since we got back, I've been thinking about ghosts and ghost stories. (This is where I started writing them, after all.) But every time I try to line up my thoughts, it comes out sounding like Tim O'Brien. Could be, that's all right. Maybe my next post will be about how to tell a true ghost story.

But don't hold me to it.

---

* More than a few are buried in the enormous cemetery a stone's throw away.