(The article may look a little daunting online–my recommendation would be to pick up an actual, real-life copy.  The design of Atlanta Magazine is quite impressive.)

You’re probably saying to yourself, “Geez, Amelia.  All magazines feature some gimmicky spooktacular article in October.  Why do I care about this one?”

Well I’ll tell you why, impatient reader.  The Wren’s Nest is totally featured!

The Wren’s Nest hosted Patrick in late June.  Kimberly Turner, journalist and Regator co-inventor, tagged along for a long, uneventful night at the Nest.

The most exciting moment probably came when Lain played audio from a different ghost hunting group.  Turn up your volume and listen-

“Come Here”
[Dear subscribers, please check out the actual post for the audio.]

Creepy, no?

That said, there really wasn’t much more to report past that point–aside from the beautiful print Patrick gave us.  Ta da!

Apparently he dabbles in infrared photography.  (It looks way better in person.  Lain and I… do not dabble in photography.)

Overall, I think this makes our place of business cooler than your place of business, even if I am scared to be here by myself.

Amelia: Good morning, The Wren’s Nest.

Caller: I’m calling about tours.

Amelia: Okay, great. How can I help you.

Caller: Are there tours?

(historical reenactment)

Amelia: Yes… we give tours.

Caller: Are you… is there a collection of houses?

Amelia: Nope, we’re just one house.

Caller: Can you visit and get a tour?

Amelia: You sure can.

Caller: (with immediacy) What are you?

Amelia: Um, we’re the Wren’s Nest, which is the home of Joel Chandler Harris, author of the Brer Rabbit and Uncle Remus tales. It’s a house museum.

Caller: (silence)

Amelia: … which means the home has been preserved since 1908, the year of the author’s death.

Caller: (confused) Do you do it yourself… to lead us… are there people to give the tour? There?

Amelia: Yep, we have tour guides. They’re great.

Caller: Okay. Goodbye.

Questions that arose from this conversation:

1. Was this man just dialing random numbers?
2. Is he president of Tour Enthusiasts International?
3. Does he always start conversations that way?
4. Does he hate tour guides, yet love the tours themselves?
5. No seriously, how did he get this number.

Worst of all? We’ll never, ever know.

And that, my friends, is why I love working here.

In the second attempt to beat the rain, and thus damage to the Wren’s Nest, Lain and Eduardo set up a ladder on the roof — and didn’t fall to their deaths!

On top of that, it looks like they actually fixed the window.

The filmmakers–the Coen brothers–are phenomenal storytellers. The single most important part of their movies is the dialogue (well, that and lighting, but no matter!).

Each of the movies you’ve seen by them employ hilariously intricate dialect. They’re almost love letters to the words of the people: respectfully precise, provincially astute, and knowingly clever. There’s a fine line between funny and making fun, and the Coen brothers toe it expertly.

In the truest sense of the word, it’s folklore brought on screen.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Without the dialect that scene goes from brilliant to dull real quick. Fargo wouldn’t be the same, and Frances McDormand probably wouldn’t have won an Academy Award.

No Country For Old Men is no exception to the rule.

The punchy dialect drives the film and gives the vast landscapes texture. Also texure-giving is Javier Bardem’s haircut, which lies somewhere in the terrifying chasm between Dorothy Hamill and Prince Valiant.

Throughout the movie,you aren’t always sure if what Tommy Lee Jones just said made any sense, but it doesn’t matter–you’re in Texas in 1980, and of course that’s what he would’ve said. His language rings true to his character, his land, and his story.

A century prior, Joel Chandler Harris grew up listening to the slaves around him and learned their dialect as they told him stories. As someone with a stutter and a stammer, I imagine the respect he had for the smooth-talking storytellers on the plantation was immense.

Either way, he–like the Coen Brothers–understood that the heart of a good story was the way it was told. Thus, the Uncle Remus Tales use dialect through and through.

Some say dialect is offensive and others say it’s preservation. I say it’s moot–it’s good storytelling, and we wouldn’t have this blog without it.

As usual Flannery O’Connor says it best: “The sound of our talk is too definite to be discarded with impunity, and if the writer tries to get rid of it, he is liable to destroy the better part of his creative power.”

After a long weekend with the League of Decency concert and Oakland Cemetery’s totally awesome Sunday in the Park, Team Wren’s Nest is whooped.

Either that, or I have locked the camera with this weekend’s pictures inside my house, while simultaneously locking myself outside of the house. Your pick.

Thus, check back tomorrow for pictures and a recap!

In the mean time, check out reactions from the always trustworthy, terribly astute, and impeccably-dressed Asian Cajuns.

That, friends, is because I am the weenie to end all weenies. I am the weeniest weenie that ever weenied. Thus the fact that I am at the Wren’s Nest at 11:36pm on a ghost hunt is not only a testament to my commitment to this house, but also my own stupidity. I shall not sleep for days.

Luckily, I am not alone in my stupidity. Other than Lain, who is pretty okay, this ghost hunt – oh wait, have I not mentioned we’re conducting a Friday the 13th ghost hunt? – also involves other friends of the Wren’s Nest, who stand at varying levels of bravery/stupidity.

At the moment, the good folks of Ghost Hounds are going from room to room with a psychic (I think?) who is telling us things about the rooms that we already know, but that she doesn’t. Gack!

11:48pm: oh god oh god. The doorbell just rang. Who the deuce was that?!

11:49pm: Ghost hounds say it was someone living. I have no proof. In the meantime, they’re asking if anyone is pregnant. Lain, do you have something to share with us?

11:52pm: I’m not sure how I feel about this ghost business. But I do know how I feel about this frightened business.

By the way, there is a live webcast and you, dear reader, can find it here:

Live Webcast

[EDIT: The webcast has been archived here. Just scroll down a little.

It's long and sometimes static-y, but why wouldn't you want to see Lain discussing ghosts with a psychic and Patrick Burns, star of the television show Haunting Evidence?

(Patrick Burns -- big time ghost huntin' celebrity)

Also present is Reese Christian, currently writing a book about ghosts in Georgia.]

11:59: The conversation here is filled with statements like “that was the chair!” and “oh no, that was a person!” I mean, really. How often do you need to clarify that.

12:45: The web chatters are not only asking questions, but making claims about happenings in the house. I’m going to need a briefer about paranormal perception. It works across the sea? Christine from Australia says so.

We’ve now gone into the attic (bad web reception), the hall, and the front parlor. In the hallway, a spirit was, ah, detected? like, 3 feet to my left. Was I brave? Heavens no.

1:06am: The great thing is, the Ghost Hounds are cracking jokes, making fun of each other, having a grand old time. Someone has made the comment “Fear the living, not the dead”. I’m not sure where that puts me, confidence-wise.

1:11: The ghost hunt is over? I have survived? The Ghost Hounds are now discussing ghost hunting celebrities? It’s all true.

Looks like Friday the 13th served us well, and Saturday the 14th had little to offer. Apparently, over 100 folks were tuned into the webcast, all jazzed and brave. Maybe that’s because they weren’t here. Though with that many fans, perhaps the Wren’s Nest will become the new hot spot for ghost -excuse me, spirit – enthusiasts from all over. We’re certainly not complaining.

(Ah, the beaches of Wilmette. Camp has never had better location, says Amelia Trace circa 1992.)

Clearly, we were setting our sights too low; the camps of today are here to educate, inspire, and, in keeping with the old traditions, ensure children sweat to death outside.

My newfound understanding of today’s day camps comes from an experience I had yesterday, and one that Victorious Coach Lain will continue for the rest of the week.

Because it’s a great idea and we like friends in high places, Lain volunteered to work with a writing camp provided by the good folks over at the Margaret Mitchell House. However, being the “important” “man” he is, his schedule didn’t allow him to attend yesterday, and I went instead.

What I was treated to was a historic/architectural tour of Inman Park, complete with 21 children complaining they were hot.

(The King Keith House, a lovely and understated Queen Anne abode in Inman Park, and a focus of our tour.)

My favorite was my new buddy, a ~58 lb. girl constantly complaining of exhaustion, carrying a 20lb. backpack. Contents? Rubik’s Cubes. Of course.

After hopping around town, writing instructor Lawrence works with the campers to prepare them to write mystery stories, inspired by the lore of Atlanta. Neat, eh? Granted, I have no idea what the afternoon batch of learning actually entailed, as I had to high-tail it outta there.

Why? Well, for the Wren’s Nest’s very own literary efforts!

Where the Margaret Mitchell folks are churning out young writers, the Wren’s Nest is giving them a chance to publish through our very own and very new Wren’s Nest Publishing Co.!

Intrigued? Good! I’ll give you this to get you started, and dig in tomorrow once you’re all salivating with excitement. Or, you know, because you want something to read while you drink your coffee.

Players: Imani “Ice Cream Trunk” Harris (age 3), J. Lain Shakespeare (24), Mercenary Amelia Trace (24), Shorty Amanda (23)

(That’s Imani on the right, hanging out with Destiny at Wren’s Nest Fest. Imani insists on being called “Ice Cream Trunk.” Probably because she’s so sweet and confused.)

The Scene: Lain, MAT, and Shorty enter the Wren’s Nest to be greeted–at full sprint–by Imani, who is yelping and leaping, presumably with joy.

Shorty, meeting Imani for the first time, is taken aback. Though having heard the lore surrounding the legend that is “Ice Cream Trunk,” she is prepared to believe anything. Imani is in rare form.

The plot thickens when Imani’s enthusiasm not only refuses to wane, but also turns to rambling tales of ducks, cakes, and lost grandmamas with some dancing sprinkled in for good measure.

Lain, Shorty, and MAT’s mouths remain agape for the good part of 20 minutes. Where did this energy come from? How is she maintaining it? Why is everyone’s favorite three-year-old wearing lipstick?

But then, just as suddenly as our questions arose, they are answered.

On the windowsill, with the lipstick-marked straw: an empty cup of delicious iced coffee.

Jeri, one of our fine docents, had left it unattended, and Imani had stolen a sip or five, leaving evidence–her lipstick–all over the straw.

Imani denies any involvement with the coffee. But we know better.

Shorty is currently running Imani around in circles in the yard.

We expect Imani to fall into a gentle slumber sometime Tuesday.

As usual, there were a few asking all the questions, answering all the questions, and being curious in general. Most were just along for the ride.

When Nannie got to Lillian and Mildred’s room, Joel Chandler Harris’ two daughters, one little girl who had been quiet all along piped up.

“Miss Nannie, I just want to know one thing!” she said.

Nannie looked her way and said, “What’s that, honey?”

“How in the world did Mrs. Harris get pregnant!?!”

Since Nannie is indeed our wisest tour guide, she suggested that the little girl ask her teacher same that question on the bus ride home.

I don’t think we can pay Nannie enough. Which is why she accepts tips!

Lain and I went to Bank of America on Thursday. We paid a locksmith $150 to drill into a rectangular metal container that hadn’t seen daylight in fifteen years. We held our breath, bit our nails, tried to put visions of treasure hunts and leprechauns and locks of hair and the remains of Joel Chandler Harris aside, but boy (oh boy!) was it hard not to dream…

Inside, we found pieces of paper. Rolled up, torn, faded pieces of paper. This is what happened: the corners of Lain’s mouth turned down a bit; mine tightened around the free sucker I had grabbed out of a basket on the teller’s counter.

Where was the note written in blood? You know, the one that said:

Dear Lain and WNIC,

Don’t be alarmed that I know your names.
Inside this box is a small key. Take it and
board the next plane to Lichtenstein. There,
you will find another clue. Should I reveal
any more about this mission, your lives
will be in great danger.

With faith and trust in you both,

Joel Chandler Harris

Not even a check for a million dollars! Here, I’ll show you what we found inside.

See if you can decipher this one from 1913:

And the warranty deed to the house:

Somebody (was it me? or Lain? or one of the ghosts?) misplaced this deed for approximately 15 minutes yesterday, and minor panic ensued. What if we felt like switching professions, and wanted to sell the house? Or what if we just felt like capitalizing on the Wren’s Nest, collecting whatever it was worth, and going to relax by the Aegean? Could we do it without the deed? Nope!

Oh, don’t be silly. We’d never sell the house! We don’t even own it. The Joel Chandler Harris Association does.

But perhaps we’ve come across some treasures after all.

This piece of paper bears the signatures of Esther Larose Harris, wife of JCH, and all six of their children–Lucien, Mildred, Evelyn, Lilian, Julian, and Joel Jr:

Neat! Mama Shakespeare (great granddaughter of Lucien) thinks we should frame it.

I think this one is the prettiest:

It renews the charter of the Uncle Remus Memorial Association. It was also quite difficult to photograph because it was curled up like a scroll. I can just picture Georgia Secretary of State John B. Wilson handing this parchment over to the ladies of the Association, perhaps singing its contents in the voice of the Coroner from the Wizard of Oz.

Or perhaps it was a bit less showy than that.

Anyhow, I repeat: I think we have some treasures on our hands.

WNIC: Hey Lain, was it worth it?

Lain: Totally worth it.