First Day of March

 

🌱 Welcome, March — The First Day That Feels Like Spring

March arrives with that unmistakable shift in the air — not quite spring, not quite winter, but something in‑between that stirs the senses. Even though the calendar insists that Spring doesn’t officially begin until March 20th, today carries its own quiet promise. The light lingers a little longer. The wind feels less sharp. The world seems to inhale again.

This is the threshold month — the hinge between seasons — and in PumpkinSpice Hearthcraft, thresholds are always worth honoring.

🍃 March in Folklore: The Month of Turning

Across old traditions, March is a month of beginnings, bravery, and unpredictable weather.

• The Romans named it for Mars, the god of war — not because of conflict, but because March marked the return of movement: armies could travel again, farmers could work the fields, and life could resume after winter’s stillness.

• In British and Irish folklore, March was the month when the earth “stirs under the soil,” waking roots and rousing seeds.

• Many cultures saw March as a time of testing — the last wild breaths of winter challenging the new season trying to rise.

• And of course, this month carries the bright, festive green of St. Patrick’s Day, a celebration of folklore, luck, renewal, and the turning of the natural world.

• 
  

March is the month that teaches patience and anticipation. It asks us to watch closely.

🌿 What This Time of Year Means for the Garden and the Season

We’re standing in that liminal space gardeners call the softening — the slow thaw, the subtle shift, the moment when the earth begins to loosen its grip.

This is the time for:

• Checking for early buds on shrubs and trees

• Watching the soil darken as moisture returns

• Noticing the first brave shoots of bulbs that refuse to wait

• Preparing tools and beds, but not rushing the work

• Listening — because the birds always know before we do

It’s too early for planting most things, but perfect for dreaming, planning, and noticing the small signs that winter is losing its hold.

March is the whisper before the song.

🌼 Are You Watching for Spring Yet?

This is the part of the season where everyone becomes a quiet observer — peeking at the ground, checking the trees, scanning the sky for that first unmistakable softness.

🌤️ A Gentle First‑Day‑of‑March Blessing

May this month arrive softly at your doorstep. May it bring the first hints of warmth, the first brave colors, the first stirrings of hope. May it remind you that even in the in‑between, life is quietly returning.

Isle of Wight, England

A Day on the Isle of Wight: Sunlight, Seabreeze, and Quiet Magic

It’s been about fourteen years now, but that day trip to the Isle of Wight still sits in my memory like a pressed flower — soft around the edges, sun‑warmed, and quietly perfect. We crossed over early, eager for a simple day of wandering, photographing, and soaking in whatever the island wanted to offer. No itinerary, no rush. Just the two of us, our cameras, and that familiar excitement that comes whenever we step into a new place.

The town we visited was quaint in the loveliest way — peaceful but not deserted, lived‑in without feeling crowded. The kind of place where the streets seem to breathe, where every window box and crooked lane feels like it has its own small story. The day was warm, the skies a soft English blue, and the air carried that unmistakable seaside scent: salty, crisp, and clean, like the sea itself had leaned in to kiss our cheeks.

We wandered slowly, letting the town unfold around us. Past stone cottages with climbing roses, past little shops with hand‑painted signs, past the teashop we’d been so excited to visit. It was everything we hoped for — cozy, fragrant, and welcoming, the sort of place where time seems to loosen its grip. We lingered over our cups, savoring the moment as much as the tea.

Afterward, we walked along the water, taking pictures of anything that caught our eye — the curve of the shoreline, and the way the sunlight shimmered on the waves,. The sea breeze wrapped around us, cool and bright, carrying the distant cries of gulls and the soft hush of the tide. It was one of those rare days where everything feels aligned — the weather, the mood, the company, the simple joy of being somewhere new.

Travel has always been that for us: a way of gathering little pieces of the world, whether it’s a grand city or a tiny village, a long journey or a single afternoon. We make the most of every place we’re fortunate enough to stand in, and the Isle of Wight was no exception. It was gentle, beautiful, and quietly memorable — the kind of day that stays with you long after you’ve gone home.

Folklore of the Isle of Wight

The Isle of Wight is small, but its folklore is wonderfully rich — a mix of sea‑legends, ghost stories, and old island mysteries that have drifted through generations.

The Ghostly Monks of Appuldurcombe

Not far from where many visitors wander, Appuldurcombe House is said to be haunted by the spirits of monks who once lived on the land long before the grand estate was built. People claim to see robed figures gliding through the ruins at dusk, silent and watchful, as though still tending to the grounds they once called home.

The Mermaid of Freshwater Bay

Local legend tells of a mermaid who lived in the waters near Freshwater Bay. She was said to be gentle but lonely, often seen combing her hair on the rocks at twilight. Fishermen believed that spotting her meant calm seas and safe passage — a blessing from the deep.

The Dragon of St. Catherine’s Down

One of the island’s oldest tales speaks of a dragon that once lived on St. Catherine’s Down. According to the story, it carved deep grooves into the hillside as it coiled and uncoiled its massive body. Some say the marks can still be traced today, softened by time but not erased.

The Ghost Ship of the Needles

Sailors have long whispered about a phantom ship that appears near the Needles during stormy weather. It glows faintly in the mist, drifting silently before vanishing without a trace. Some believe it’s the spirit of a vessel lost centuries ago, forever trying to find its way home.

Mercy Brown - Vampire, Exeter, RI

Mercy Brown of Exeter, Rhode Island: Folklore, Fact, and My Quiet Visits

There are places in New England where history settles softly into the landscape—stone walls, weathered farms, and small rural cemeteries that hold more stories than they ever reveal. Chestnut Hill Cemetery in Exeter, Rhode Island is one of those places. It’s where Mercy Lena Brown rests, the young woman who became the center of one of America’s most infamous “vampire” legends.

I’ve visited her grave many times over the years, growing up less than a mile from this location. I even have family buried not far from her. And despite the folklore, the rumors, and the ghost‑hunter fantasies that swirl around her name, the truth is simple: it is a quiet, humble, peaceful cemetery. Nothing frightening. Nothing supernatural. Just history, grief, and the echoes of a family who suffered more than most.

The Folklore: New England’s Last “Vampire”

Mercy Brown’s story is often told as if she were a creature of the night—New England’s own vampire, rising from the grave to drain the life from her family. For more than a century, people have whispered about her, visited her grave at night, and even vandalized her headstone in the name of thrill‑seeking.

The legend grew because it had all the ingredients folklore loves:

• a young woman dying tragically

• a family struck by repeated illness

• a frightened rural community

• and a time before germ theory was understood

To outsiders, it became a spooky tale. To locals, it became a cautionary one. And to some, it became a destination for ghost stories and dares.

But the folklore is only half the story.

The Fact: Mercy Brown Was Never a Vampire

Mercy Brown died in 1892 from tuberculosis—known then as “consumption.” It was a devastating disease that swept through families, especially in rural areas where people lived close together and medical knowledge was limited.

Her mother and sister died first. Then Mercy. Then her brother Edwin fell ill. Desperate and terrified, the townspeople believed something supernatural was draining the family’s life.

In their fear, they turned to old folk practices—rituals that predated modern medicine. Mercy’s body was exhumed, examined, and used in a misguided attempt to “cure” Edwin. It didn’t work, of course. He died shortly after.

The tragedy wasn’t vampirism. It was tuberculosis, misunderstanding, and grief.

A Cemetery Misunderstood

Because of the legend, Mercy’s grave has been vandalized repeatedly over the years. Her headstone has been stolen, damaged, and defaced by people chasing a thrill or trying to summon something that was never there.

But that’s not the cemetery I know.

When I visit, I find a small, serene place tucked into the Rhode Island countryside. The air is still. The stones are modest. The land feels tended, not haunted. My own family rests there, and never once have I experienced anything eerie, unsettling, or out of the ordinary.

It is a place of rest—not a stage for folklore.

Why Her Story Still Matters

Mercy Brown’s tale sits at the crossroads of folklore and fact. It shows how fear can shape a narrative, how communities create stories to explain the inexplicable, and how those stories can outlive the truth.

But it also reminds us that behind every legend is a real person. Mercy was a daughter, a sister, a young woman whose life was cut short by illness—not a monster.

When I visit her grave, I don’t feel the weight of a vampire myth. I feel the quiet dignity of a family who endured unimaginable loss, and a community doing the best it could with the knowledge it had.

A Final Reflection

Chestnut Hill Cemetery is not a place of horror. It is a place of humanity.

Mercy Brown’s story is not a ghost story. It is a story of misunderstanding, folklore, and the way history can twist when fear takes the lead.

Birds Who Choose Their Mates

 

The Lost Folklore of Valentine’s Day: The February Birds Who Choose Their Mates.

When most people think of Valentine’s Day, they picture roses, cards, and heart‑shaped everything. But tucked beneath all the commercial noise is a quiet, old piece of folklore that once shaped how people understood mid‑February: the belief that birds choose their mates on February 14th.

This idea appears in scattered bits of medieval writing, rural sayings, and early seasonal customs — not grand myths, not religious doctrine, just the soft folklore of people watching the natural world and giving it meaning.

It’s a tiny tradition, almost forgotten now, but it reveals something lovely about how humans once read the seasons.

Why Birds? Why February?

In parts of medieval Europe, people noticed that certain birds — especially those that stayed through winter — began showing early signs of pairing as the light slowly returned. February wasn’t spring, but it was the hint of it. A promise.

So the idea formed: mid‑February is when the birds begin choosing their mates for the year.

This wasn’t scientific. It wasn’t meant to be. It was observational folklore — the kind that grows from watching the same hedgerows, the same fields, the same sky year after year.

And because people loved parallels, they tied their own courtship customs to the birds’ imagined ones.

The “Bird Marriage” Tradition

In some regions, children would celebrate “bird weddings” in mid‑February. They’d leave crumbs or seeds outside “for the wedding feast,” imagining that the sparrows or blackbirds were holding tiny ceremonies in the hedges.

It was playful, not ceremonial — a way to mark the turning of the season with a bit of whimsy.

Adults sometimes used the phrase “the birds are choosing” as a gentle nudge toward courtship, or simply as a seasonal marker, the way we might say “the first crocuses are up.”

How This Folklore Shaped Valentine’s Day

Before Valentine’s Day was about romance, it was mostly a feast day with no particular theme. But the bird‑pairing folklore gave it a new seasonal meaning: mid‑February became associated with choosing, pairing, and early affection.

Not grand passion. Not destiny. Just the small, hopeful beginnings of connection — the same way the year itself was beginning to turn.

This is likely why early Valentine’s letters and tokens often referenced birds. Not because of Cupid, but because of the hedgerows.

A Folkloric Way to See Valentine’s Day Today

If you prefer your holidays gentle, folkloric, and rooted in seasonal living rather than commercial noise, this old belief offers a softer lens:

• Valentine’s Day becomes a marker of early light, not a pressure-filled romantic event.

• It becomes a day about small gestures, like the first birdsong after winter.

• It becomes a reminder that connection begins quietly, long before spring arrives.

You don’t need a partner to enjoy it. You don’t need roses or chocolates. You only need the awareness that the year is turning and that humans have always looked for signs of warmth in the coldest months.

A Simple Modern Ritual (Folkloric, Not Spiritual)

If you want to honor this tradition in a cozy, non‑mystical way:

• Put out a handful of seeds for the winter birds.

• Notice which ones visit.

• Let it be a tiny celebration of mid‑February — a nod to the old belief that love, in all its forms, begins quietly.

It’s a way of saying: the world is still cold, but it’s turning.

And that’s enough.

Where the Valentine Card Began

 

Where the Valentine Card Began: A Whimsical Little History

Long before glitter glue, lace doilies, and heart‑studded envelopes filled the aisles of February, the Valentine card began its life as something far humbler — a whispered sentiment, a folded scrap, a small bravery of the heart.

A Love Note in a Tower

The earliest known Valentine message is often attributed to Charles, Duke of Orléans, who in 1415 found himself imprisoned in the Tower of London. With nothing but time, quills, and longing, he wrote a poem to his wife calling her his “Valentine.” It wasn’t a card as we know it, but it was the spark — a tender ember in a very cold place.

You can almost imagine him there: a winter draft curling under the door, ink freezing on the nib, and yet he’s writing love into the world anyway. That’s the soul of the Valentine card right there — a small warmth against the bitter cold season.

Handmade Hearts and Secret Courting

By the 1600s and 1700s, people across England were exchanging handmade “valentines” — little tokens of affection crafted from paper, ribbon, pressed flowers, ephemera, and whatever scraps felt romantic enough to carry a message. These were not mass‑produced; they were personal, imperfect, and often delightfully over‑the‑top.

Some included puzzles or rebuses (“I 🐝 + 🍯 = I be honey for you”), others had cut‑paper silhouettes, and many were slipped anonymously under doors. Courtship was a quieter, more coded affair then, and a Valentine was a safe way to say, I’m thinking of you, without fainting from embarrassment.

Enter the Lace, the Frills, and the Postal Service

The true explosion of Valentine cards came in the Victorian era — a time when sentimentality was practically a national sport. Paper lace became wildly popular, and printers began producing elaborate, layered cards with pop‑ups, hidden messages, and tiny paper mechanisms that made doves flap or hearts unfold.

Thanks to the Penny Post, sending a Valentine became affordable for everyone. Suddenly, February 14th was a flurry of envelopes, some sweet, some silly, some scandalous. (Victorians loved a good saucy pun — they were not as prim as they pretended.)

America Joins the Party

In the mid‑1800s, Esther Howland of Massachusetts — often called the “Mother of the American Valentine” — saw an English card and thought, We can do that, but bigger. She began assembling ornate cards with lace, embossed paper, and bright scraps imported from Europe. Her designs were so popular she built an entire cottage industry around them, employing women who worked from home assembling the layers.

Her cards were lush, romantic, and unapologetically sentimental — the ancestors of the cards we know today.

A Tradition of Small Braveries

And so the Valentine card grew from a prisoner’s poem to a handmade token to a Victorian spectacle to the modern aisle of pink and red. But at its heart, it’s still the same thing it always was: a small bravery. A way to say, You matter to me, even if your hands shake a little while writing it.

There’s something wonderfully human about that — the way we keep trying to wrap love in paper, lace, ink, and whimsy, hoping it reaches the right hands and hearts.

Tale of Stingy Jack

 

✨ The Tale of Stingy Jack — A Cozy, Spooky Folklore Retelling ✨

​

In old Irish folklore, there lived a man known far and wide as Stingy Jack — a clever trickster with a silver tongue and a talent for getting himself into trouble. Jack was the sort of fellow who could talk his way out of anything… even a meeting with the Devil himself.

​

One chilly autumn night, Jack invited the Devil out for a drink. True to his nickname, Jack had no intention of paying. Instead, he convinced the Devil to turn into a shiny coin to settle the bill. But the moment the Devil transformed, Jack slipped the coin into his pocket — right beside a small silver cross. The cross trapped the Devil, who found himself stuck in Jack’s coat like a moth in a lantern.

​

After much bargaining (and more than a little grumbling), Jack finally agreed to free him — but only if the Devil promised not to take Jack’s soul when his time came. The Devil, annoyed but defeated, agreed.

​

Years passed, and eventually Jack’s mischief caught up with him. When he died, Heaven refused him for his trickery, and Hell turned him away because of the Devil’s old promise. Jack found himself stuck between worlds, with nowhere to go and no place to rest.

​

Seeing Jack wandering in the dark, the Devil tossed him a single burning coal — a small, stubborn ember meant to light his endless journey. Jack carved out a turnip, placed the coal inside, and made himself a lantern to guide his way. And so he became Jack of the Lantern, doomed to roam the night with his eerie little light.

​

When Irish families later came to America, they found pumpkins — bigger, brighter, and much easier to carve than turnips. The tradition grew into the glowing Jack‑o’-Lanterns we know today, set on porches and windowsills to keep wandering spirits (and tricksters like Jack) at bay.

Origins of Halloween

The Origins of Halloween: From Ancient Samhain to the Celebration We Know Today

Halloween did not appear suddenly as a night of costumes, pumpkins, and playful fright. Its roots reach back more than two thousand years, to the windswept hills and firelit gatherings of the ancient Celts in Ireland. Long before carved pumpkins glowed on porches, the Celtic people marked the turning of the seasons with a festival called Samhain—a threshold moment when autumn’s final harvest gave way to the deep, uncertain dark of winter.

Samhain: The Ancient Threshold Festival

Samhain (pronounced sow-in) was the Gaelic festival that marked the end of the autumn equinox and the beginning of the winter season. It began at sunset on October 31 and continued into November 1, a liminal window when the old year slipped away and the new one had not yet fully begun. In Celtic belief, this was a time when the boundary between the living and the dead grew thin.

According to tradition, the spirits of those who had died during the previous year rose once more on this night. Before journeying to the underworld, they wandered the land, drifting through villages and fields in search of souls to accompany them. It was considered a night of danger, mischief, and spiritual unrest—a night when the world felt slightly off its axis.

To protect themselves, the Celts lit great bonfires, wore disguises, and carried carved turnips with glowing embers inside. These early lanterns were meant to frighten away malevolent spirits and guide friendly ones home.

The Evolution Toward Halloween

As centuries passed and new religions and cultural practices spread across Europe, many communities sought to distance themselves from the older Druidic and pagan rituals. Rather than erase Samhain entirely, they reshaped it.

The Christian church designated November 1 as All Saints Day, a celebration honoring holy men and women who had triumphed over evil. The evening before became known as All Hallows Eve, eventually shortened to Halloween. The spiritual tone shifted: instead of fearing the spirits that wandered the night, people dressed in frightening costumes to drive them away.

The idea remained the same—protect the living from the forces that sought to trouble them—but the meaning was reframed through a new lens.

Traditions Old and New

Over time, Halloween absorbed layers of customs from many cultures, blending ancient practices with emerging ones. Some traditions remained close to their roots, while others transformed into the playful rituals we know today.

Common celebrations now include:

• Wearing costumes to ward off evil spirits

• Carving pumpkins (a later American adaptation of the Celtic turnip lantern)

• Trick-or-treating, echoing old customs of going door to door for food or offerings

• Bobbing for apples, a remnant of harvest games

• Drinking warm ciders and wassail

• Hosting gatherings filled with stories, laughter, and seasonal foods

Though the tone has softened over the centuries, the heart of Halloween remains the same: a night that honors the mystery of the unseen, the turning of the seasons, and the human desire to find light in the dark.

A Night Between Worlds

To understand Halloween is to understand Samhain—the ancient belief that on one night each year, the veil between worlds thins and the living must protect themselves from wandering spirits. Modern Halloween may be brighter, friendlier, and more festive, but it still carries the echo of those early fires on the Celtic hillsides.

It is a celebration shaped by centuries of change, yet rooted in the same timeless truth: as autumn fades and winter approaches, we gather together, light our lanterns, and face the dark with courage, creativity, and community.

National Gumdrop Day!

 

There’s a bit of sweet debate about where gumdrops truly began. Some stories place their origins in the early 1800s; others say they didn’t take their familiar chewy form until much later. What is certain is that by the mid‑1800s, people were already talking about these little sugar‑coated jewels, and by the early 1900s, they had become the soft, fruity, or spicy treats we recognize today.

From there, gumdrops opened the door to a whole family of jelly and gummy candies — bright colors, soft textures, and flavors pulled from fruits, herbs, and cozy spices. They were simple, cheerful, and easy to love.

If you buy a bag today, you’re participating in a tradition that has been quietly weaving itself through kitchens, candy shops, and holiday tables for generations. Pour them into a pretty bowl, offer them to friends, coworkers, or family, or keep a few tucked away for yourself. However you enjoy them, gumdrops have earned their place as a cultural favorite — a tiny, sparkling piece of nostalgia that continues to live in our stories, celebrations, and folklore.

And honestly, there’s something delightful about that: a candy so small, yet so woven into memory.

So, whether you: 

• pour them into a pretty glass dish,

• offer them to friends, coworkers, or curious passersby,

• or sneak one (or three) for yourself…

…you’re participating in a tradition that’s been part of American culture since the mid‑1800s and sweetened by folklore ever since.

Gumdrops aren’t just candy — they’re a tiny, chewy piece of nostalgia, still sparkling their way through our kitchens, holidays, and stories.

If you want, I can help you shape this into a more formal article, a social post, or a whimsical “National Gumdrop Day” feature.