“In my imagination a labyrinth is such a convoluted, complicated structure that anyone who ends up in it will have trouble getting out again, except perhaps by following Ariadne's thread. Surrealism as a whole may be described as labyrinthine: many puzzles, many questions, no answers, no exit. I wanted to approach the topic directly: by painting a labyrinth. Something like a House of Mirrors rather than an antique structure or a playful Rococo garden, but it proved impossible to represent convincingly. I took refuge in a manageable but unreal structure, open so that one can look into it, but without an exit, even Ariadne's thread is useless here. Maybe you are familiar with something like this from your dreams? With Kafka it became The Trial.” [The Letti Collection - Oil on canvas, 118 x 133 cm]

House Of 1000 Corpses

Explore Fragments of Yesteryear (LvS)'s 522 photos on Flickr!

Photos of The Edward Gorey House. Of, or relating to, the "Morbid Anatomy Blog

Elegy and Escapism in East London in the 1980s Guest post by Kasia Maciejowska. The House of Beauty and Culture (HOBAC) was a craft collective at the heart of the London club scene in the late 1980s. They mixed outré camp details with rough industrial textures to pioneer an urban dress code that was taken up by the fashion world in the following decade.

Le site de référence de la bande dessinée - Logiciel de gestion de collection BD, Forum, Chroniques, Preview, News, Dossiers, Jeux, Concours, Festivals.

Enjoy your down time with some funny, cool, and random images!

A Mid Century Abandoned House located somewhere along the Ontario abandoned backroads. An amazing abandoned house for Urban Exploration Photographers

The creepy middle grade debut from USA Today bestselling author Amalie Howard in which a girl stays with her grandmother in Trinidad for the summer and discovers that she comes from a long line of powerful witches. Darika “Rika” Lovelace is in trouble. The kind of trouble that sends her to her grandmother’s estate in Trinidad for the whole summer. But something about the island feels…different. As soon as she steps off the plane, strange things start happening! Rika meets a group of kids called Minders, who seem to have elemental powers. Even worse, she can sense jumbies lurking in the shadows. Needless to say, she wants a ticket home. But when the Minders let slip that her long-lost mom is in danger, she knows she can’t leave. Thrust into a magical adventure involving bloodcurdling monsters, a supernatural silk cotton tree, and an endless maze, Rika must defeat the fearsome jumbie king to save her family and new friends. But unless she learns to believe in herself, she’ll never beat him or escape his twisted maze. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593645871 Media Type: Hardcover Publisher: Delacorte Press Publication Date: 02-20-2024 Pages: 304 Age Range: 8 - 12 YearsAbout the Author AMALIE HOWARD is a USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of historical romance, including The Beast of Beswick, The Rakehell of Roth, and Always Be My Duchess, and has penned several critically acclaimed young adult novels. She is an AAPI, Caribbean-born writer whose work has been featured in publications such as Entertainment Weekly and Oprah Daily. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found reading; being the president of her one-woman Harley Davidson motorcycle club, #WriteOrDie; or power-napping. She lives in Colorado with her family.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt 1 Pride and Punishment Airports have to be the first places to go in an apocalypse. From the plane’s window, I watch a five-year-old pick his nose a few feet in front of me before using those same wet, goopy fingers to grab the handrail as he and his parents exit down the rollaway stairs. I cringe, reach for the hand sanitizer attached to my backpack, and squeeze out a large dollop. I wrinkle my nose at the people swarming the aisle to leave the airplane, where they’ll be touching that same booger rail. It only takes one infected person and—bam!—mass contagion. That kid could be patient zero and within seconds everyone’s hungry for each other’s brains. Instant zombie apocalypse. Not that zombies exist, but a girl can’t be too careful. Stepping through the rounded plane door, I blink at the thick, bleary heat blasting into my face at the top of the stairs. Holy melting Skittles farms, the Caribbean is hot. Not like bone-dry summer hot, but sticky, humid, take-a-dozen-showers-to-stay-cool hot. Already my armpits are sweating into the cotton of my tank top, and I’ve only just arrived at the destination indicated on the plane ticket tucked in the front pocket of my backpack. Port-of-Spain, it reads, the capital of Trinidad and Tobago. Might as well say Port-of-Prison. Because that’s what Granny’s house will be—my jail cell for the next three months. It’d been her idea when my dad called her a month ago out of frustration. I had been written up for vandalism—again—though no charges had been pressed against me by my school, thank goodness. But I’d been royally grounded. No phone. No drawing tablet. No anything. I couldn’t text friends. I couldn’t sketch. I couldn’t even use my computer to game. And now I’ve been banished to another country for the whole summer without any of my stuff. To be fair, I knew this was coming—this was the last straw. Those words replay in my mind in Dad’s grim voice and my heart squashes in my chest. I could have done my homework, gotten better grades, stopped cutting school, and not drawn on public property. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Rika, I tell myself. Three months is nothing. Get over it. Sure. Three months of trying not to die of boredom. And who knows what Granny has planned? She is a weathered battle-ax who lives on an estate in the middle of nowhere, grows her own fruit in a massive orchard, sews her own clothes, and is just . . . weird. I used to think she was made of magic when I was younger—that she had eyes in the back of her head that saw everything. She’d tell me stories about witchcraft that would have my spine curling and my blood crawling. Myths of monsters and jumbies, creepy lost children called douens whose feet faced backward, and a shape-shifting woman called la diablesse who came in the night to steal the souls of children, only she said it like “la-ja-bless.” I remember shivering in terrified delight when Granny teased that kids’ bones were always soft and delicious. I used to live for her tales. But I guess they’re about as real as zombies. Now, I can only think about the fact that Granny has no internet. I’ll be cut off from everything and everyone. And by the time summer ends, in this heat, I’m probably going to dissolve into a sad puddle of melty goo that no one back home will even recognize. On cue, a hot gust steams into my entire body like it’s cackling in the face of my epic pity party, and I sigh. Even the weather is against me. I give a half-hearted wave to the airline representative waiting at the base of the rollaway stairs and force my legs to move. It feels like I’m moving through syrup in the heat. “Miss Lovelace-Rose?” the woman says when I reach the bottom. Mom always said names have power, and apparently ours does, so Lovelace-Rose it is. I nod. “That’s me.” Unaccompanied minor and future goo puddle. Unwanted miscreant and trouble with a capital T. “Welcome to Trinidad and Tobago,” she says, her accent soft and musical. Tania, her name tag reads. That starts with T too. I wonder if she ever got sent away by her dad to some strange place when she was younger. She’s beautiful, tall with brown skin several shades darker than mine and a red-lipped smile that’s so wide, it makes you want to grin back. I’m not ready to stop sulking, so I mumble noncommittal responses to her friendly questions about the flight and whether I’d been to Trinidad before. “Yes, it was fine.” I don’t want to be here. “Once, a few years ago.” My life officially sucks. After we get through the lines in immigration, where my passport is scrutinized and stamped, Tania eyes me. “It says here in my packet that a Mrs. Lovelace will be meeting you?” she asks. “My grandmother.” “Okay. Let’s get your luggage, then wait for her.” This airport is much smaller than the one I left from in the United States, and the large open windows let in a warm breeze that smells of a rainstorm and fresh-tilled earth. Colorful brown-green foliage sways in the distance, a rise of darker purple-hued mountains looming behind it. A plump lizard sunning on one of the sills catches my attention. No, not a lizard, more like a baby iguana. As long as my forearm from elbow to wrist, it’s a brilliant green with black tail markings and looks like a miniature dragon, without the wings. For an instant, its eye connects with mine until a long pink tongue slicks over it, which is somehow simultaneously gross . . . and kind of adorable. Keeping my face stoic, I look away. I don’t want to be charmed by or like anything about this place—not the cool reptiles, not the fresh smells, not the friendly, smiling faces like Tania’s. Last time I was here, I was nine. More than three years ago. Before Mom left. Before Dad got remarried to Cassie. Before my stepbrothers, Max and Theo, came. Before everything in my life went downhill. I stare at my scuffed sneakers, feeling sorry for myself again, when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Shuddering and resisting the urge to rub my nape, I glance over my shoulder. My gaze instantly snags on a thin-faced but gorgeous woman, with her hair scraped back beneath a wide-brimmed hat, sauntering through the crowd. My adrenaline spikes, like when you enter a pitch-black room and can’t find the light switch or right before the jump scare you know is coming in a scary movie. As she sails past me, her floor-length red gown way too fancy for the airport, my skin crawls. Something about her feels off. A strange noise fills my ears, like a swarm of buzzing flies . . . or the faint rattle of chains. Stomach rolling, stark terror grips me in a giant fist. My breath stutters in my throat, and I drop my eyes. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, I chant silently. On instinct, I shift so I’m hidden behind Tania’s ample form, out of the woman’s sight, though I can still see her. Her flowy old-style dress reminds me of a fancy ball gown and her face is so still it’s unnerving. Those wide-set eyes don’t blink and her mouth doesn’t move in that gruesome rictus. I narrow my gaze. Her chest doesn’t move either, for that matter. Why isn’t she breathing? Is she dead? UNDEAD? When a pair of milky eyes sweeps in my direction, every muscle in my quaking body locks up. Oh my gosh, why can’t I move my feet anymore? I feel a sticky, soupy energy reaching for me like a dozen pairs of tentacles with long twisty feelers that are going to grab me and gobble me whole. Trolleys clang behind me and I nearly jump a foot into the air. I let out a small gasp, and that’s enough for her to swing around. My heart thrashes behind my ribs as the sensation of a hundred spiders scuttles across my skin, and fight-or-flight kicks in a half-second too late. Everything feels foul. I want to scream for help, call my dad and beg him to bring me home. Offer up anything—eternity in my room, babysitting duty for Max and Theo forever. I just want out of here. But my shoes are glued to the floor. My body is frozen in a trance, legs like iron weights, dread thickening in my throat with each manic thump of my heart. I stay close to Tania and try not to breathe or attract any more notice . . . but the sound of those chains rattling nears. Coming for me.

The future of the Irish border is one of the key issues of the Brexit negotiations. Because of its sensitive history, there are fears over what might happen if a hard border and checkpoints returned.

Pythia was the name given to the priestesses who served at the oracle of Delphi. People would make the pilgrimage from all over the Mediterranean to consult

Charlie and Daphne Tomkins have spent nine years revamping an abandoned old cottage in Northumberland into a plush home featuring its very own wind turbine.

Lily has whittled down her possessions to fit her tiny Christchurch home, but she has trouble parting with books; the bookcase beside th...

Investors are gambling their life savings on get-rich-quick property schemes that buy derelict homes in Detroit and tiny student flats in the UK.

The Dana Girls series made its debut on January 17, 1934 with the publication of the first three titles, By the Light of the Study Lamp, The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage, and In the Shadow of the Tower. During the first four years of the series run, 1934 through 1937, the books were printed with lavender and green dust jackets. The dust jackets are difficult to acquire, and as such, most collectors have not seen enough of them to have any idea what the exact first printing points are for each title. A Dana Girls guide was written by one collector more than 10 years ago, but that collector lost interest before the guide was published. As a result, we are completely on our own when attempting to figure out which books and jackets are first printings. Generally, a dust jacket that has a list of titles ending with the title of the book itself is a likely first printing. However, during the 1930s, some first printing dust jackets had lists ending with the previous title in the series. We know this to be true for Nancy Drew, so it could also possibly be true for the Dana Girls. My goal when purchasing the lavender and green dust jackets more than 10 years ago was to try to get jackets that were not faded but to also try to get early or first printings. At the time that I was building my set, the lavender and green dust jackets were routinely selling for $250 to $500 each. I settled for slightly flawed jackets that were not first printings for the majority of them. The Dana Girls series was not important enough for me to want to spend hundreds of dollars for a dust jacket, especially since I had no idea which jackets were the first printing jackets. I always assumed that the first printing jackets for the first three books list the first three titles in the series ending with In the Shadow of the Tower. At that time, I thought that a Dana Girls dust jacket for any of #1-3 listing just the first three titles on the front flap was guaranteed to be the first printing dust jacket. I managed to acquire one of them. I then focused on other series and forgot about upgrading my Dana Girls books and seeking first printings. Earlier this year I was asked about the first printing dust jackets for the first three titles. I was asked whether all three dust jackets exist with three titles listed on the front flap and with the ads on the reverse side of the jacket. Honestly, I did not know, since I had never given it any thought. This person had bought one of the first three titles with a jacket listing to In the Shadow of the Tower, but the jacket did not have the reverse ads. I checked my books and found my copy of The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage which has a jacket that lists to the third title and has the reverse ads. I did not have the other two, but since I knew that all three books were published simultaneously, I concluded that all three must have been issued with dust jackets that list the first three titles and have the reverse ads. It would not be logical for one jacket to have the reverse ads and the other two not to have the ads if all three books were originally published at the same time. Below is an example of a recent eBay auction for a copy of In the Shadow of the Tower with a jacket listing three titles. The jacket does not have the reverse ads. If it did, then the front flap would have green text along the right edge which states "LOOK ON THE REVERSE SIDE OF THIS JACKET." The back flap would have green text along the right edge which states "PRESERVE THIS WRAPPER FOR FUTURE REFERENCE." Clearly, the above jacket does not have the reverse ads and is therefore not the first printing dust jacket. The end result of all of this is that it made me curious enough to see if I could find the other two jackets with the reverse ads. Finally, they showed up on eBay. Although the condition was not good at all, I purchased them for the sake of having proof that they exist. Here are photographs of all three jackets with the reverse ads. Note that all three jackets have the green text on both flaps, list three titles on the front flap, and have the ads on the reverse side. Remember that you can click on a photo to see a larger version. Now I have all three jackets with the reverse ads. My next thought was whether I could safely conclude that only one printing exists with the reverse ads. To put it another way, are these jackets guaranteed to be the first printing jackets for the first three titles? I checked Farah's Guide to see where the cutoff is for dust jackets that have the reverse ads. No Nancy Drew books printed past 1933 have the reverse ads. The last Nancy Drew to be printed with a reverse ads jacket was The Password to Larkspur Lane, which went through two 1933 printings with the ads and one 1933 printing without the ads. Interesting... The first three Dana Girls books are copyright 1934, which makes it rather strange that the jackets even have the reverse ads. Sometimes series other than Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys went through format changes at slightly different times, which makes it not so strange. My next task was to look up the actual date for which the copyright was issued for the first three Dana Girls books. This information is available online for all of the books by searching The Catalog of Copyright Entries. I discovered that the first three Dana Girls books were published on January 17, 1934, which places them at the very beginning of 1934. This makes it likely that the books and jackets were printed at the very end of 1933, making the existence of the reverse ads not to be so strange. While I cannot be certain, I feel that I can conclude that no more than one printing of each jacket exists with the reverse ads. Even if two printings exist with the reverse ads, both printings would have to list Nancy Drew to The Password to Larkspur Lane. The next Nancy Drew title, The Clue of the Broken Locket, was not published until August 8, 1934. It is highly unlikely that another Dana Girls reverse ads jacket would have been printed that late in 1934. In fact, notice that the photo I provided of a jacket that does not have the reverse ads lists Nancy Drew to The Clue of the Broken Locket. Therefore, I feel that all reverse ads Dana Girls jackets are likely identical and list Nancy Drew to The Password to Larkspur Lane. The next question is whether the books are the first printing books. This could go either way. Often, department stores would take jackets off of books and store them until the books were purchased. This means that jackets did not always get placed back on the correct books. Since we have no Dana Girls guide, it's anybody's guess what the first printing book points are. Here are the post-text ads for the books that came with my first printing dust jackets. Post-text ads for By the Light of the Study Lamp: "This Isn't All!" with a line drawn around it in the shape of a box followed by Nancy Drew to Mysterious Letter and Judy Bolton to Seven Strange Clues Post-text ads for The Secret at Lone Tree Cottage: none Post-text ads for In the Shadow of the Tower: "This Isn't All!" with a line drawn around it in the shape of a box with no other post-text ads I have no idea whether I have the first printing books, but I do have the first printing dust jackets.

With the help of her gumshoe ghost, bookshop owner Penelope Thornton-McClure sets out to clear an innocent woman of a shocking crime in this all-new entry in the "utterly charming" (Mystery Scene) Haunted Bookshop Mysteries from New York Times bestselling author Cleo Coyle. Norma is a modern-day nomad. Living out of her van and teardrop trailer, she revels in self-reliance, solitude, and reading in the glorious peace of nature. Jovial, wise, and scrupulously honest, she's become an uplifting presence in the little town of Quindicott, Rhode Island, where bookseller Pen is thankful to have her part-time help. But it's Norma's other job, working as a housekeeper at the Finch Inn, that gets her into terrible trouble. Norma is accused of stealing jewels from a guest's room: the legendary Valentino Teardrops, an antique necklace and earring set, inherited by a young socialite. Pen doesn't believe Norma is guilty of the crime--though the evidence is distressingly strong. And when the spirited Norma vanishes before her arrest, Pen turns to another spirit... Jack Shepard, PI, may have been gunned down decades ago, but his memory hasn't been ghosted. Back in the 1940s, those same Valentino Teardrops starred in a bizarre case of betrayal and murder. From the look of things, history is about to repeat. Now Jack is back on the job, and Pen is eternally grateful. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780425255483 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group Publication Date: 10-04-2022 Pages: 288 Product Dimensions: 4.00(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.90(d) Series: Haunted Bookshop Mystery Series - #8About the Author CLEO COYLE is a pseudonym for Alice Alfonsi, writing in collaboration with her husband, Marc Cerasini. Both are New York Times bestselling authors of The Coffeehouse Mysteries, now celebrating over ten years in print. Alice and Marc are also bestselling media tie-in writers who have penned properties for Lucasfilm, NBC, Fox, Disney, Imagine, and MGM. They live and work in New York City, where they write independently and together, including the nationally bestselling Haunted Bookshop Mysteries.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Chapter 1 Happy to Be Haunted The imagination feeds on phantoms. -Cornell Woolrich, "Mind over Murder," Dime Detective magazine, 1943 Quindicott, Rhode Island Present day A penny for your thoughts. "You don't have a penny, Jack. You haven't had a penny in decades." I beg to differ, doll. You still carry around my Buffalo nickel, don't you? "Yes." So I got at least five cents in my Penny bank. The ghost was right. Ever since I pocketed that ancient nickel of his, the one that spilled out of his dusty PI files, I'd made a mobile connection to a gumshoe spirit I couldn't control (or always comprehend) yet kept talking to anyway. But then life was like that, wasn't it? Driven by phantoms we didn't always understand. My name is Penelope Thornton-McClure. I'm a widow in my thirties who moved myself and my young son back to my hometown in recent years to help save my aunt Sadie's bookshop. Using my late husband's life insurance money and my New York publishing connections, I revived the family's dying business, overhauling the stale inventory, restoring the crumbling façade, polishing up the wood-plank floor, and replacing the ancient, rickety decor with beautiful oak bookshelves, standing lamps, and overstuffed armchairs fit for a cozy New England library. I put us online for global sales and expanded us into the neighboring storefront, adding an event space for author appearances, reading groups, and community gatherings. It was the noise of that expansion that appeared to have roused Jack Shepard from decades of supernatural slumber. Why exactly the gallant gumshoe was gunned down on our premises, I don't know, but the question felt fitting, given our shop's specialty. We sell all kinds of books, you see, but we specialize in crime and mystery fiction. Not that everyone likes a mystery-literary or otherwise. If a doorway opened to a darkened room, would you walk through it? Or swiftly pass it by? If a disembodied voice started giving you advice, would you listen? Or plug your ears and cover your eyes? Cornell Woolrich once wrote "the imagination feeds on phantoms," but I never considered myself especially imaginative-or brave. What I am is incurably curious, intellectually itchy. That's why I couldn't stop talking to the ghost. Or asking questions about Norma. She was a curiosity. A puzzle of a person with so many pieces missing that I couldn't see her big picture. True, few people in our lives are totally open books. Nearly everyone we know conceals personal secrets. But if someone you knew (and liked) was accused of a major crime, wouldn't you be shocked enough to ask a few questions? In Norma's case, those questions began on a cool autumn afternoon. I'd been working all day in the shop and back office and felt the need for some fresh air and exercise, which is why I ventured out on foot, taking the back, wooded trail that led to the Finch Inn, a lovingly restored Queen Anne Victorian bed-and-breakfast run by my good friends Fiona and Barney Finch. I usually enjoyed this walk, but today's trek felt ominous. The dry leaves around me rustled with a kind of death rattle. The shortened days and drop in temperature had choked off their green vibrance and bright fall colors for last-breath pigments of tired yellow and dried-blood brown. Tree branches swished menacingly with every salty gust from the nearby Atlantic, and the air felt raw. I could smell the rain coming. As gathering clouds began to smother the sunlight, even the birds went eerily silent. Alone on this path, I pulled my jacket closer around me, trying not to shiver, when suddenly I wasn't alone anymore. How many times do I have to tell you, baby? There are wolves in this big, bad world. What are you doing wandering through this forest all alone, like a Little Red-headed Riding Hood? My ghost was back. Chapter 2 A Walk in the Woods Keep close to Nature's heart . . . and break clear away, once in a while . . . spend a week in the woods. Wash your spirit clean. -John Muir "Hello, Jack. Nice to hear from you again. And this is hardly a forest. It's a scenic nature trail and quite popular with the town's joggers and bikers. I'm only out here alone because it's an overcast Monday. On the weekends this trail is nearly as busy as Cranberry Street. The after-church crowd takes it to their Sunday brunches at Chez Finch." That a fact? So you're puttin' us on the path of the righteous? "A road you know well, I'm sure." Me? The ghost laughed, a sure, masculine chuckle. Don't get me confused with some dull-as-dust do-right rube. I strayed off the path of virtue long before you were even born. "I don't buy it, Jack, now that I've gotten to know you. If you still had a body, there wouldn't be a bad bone in it. You're just too embarrassed to admit that down deep you're a knight of the streets-and a sweetheart-and you always were." Don't try to perfume my past, baby. Night was when I operated. No K in front of it, unless it was a KO. And I been called a lotta things back when my ticker tocked, but nobody ever called me "sweetheart"-nobody who meant it, anyway. "Saint or sinner, I'm glad you're here. I missed you . . ." And I had to admit, "Right now, I appreciate the company." Because you're scared? "Me? Don't be silly!" Jack's warning about "wolves" was ridiculous. There were no such things in our safe little town. And I knew these woods well enough, though the gloom and chill were far from cheery, and the wind gusts were becoming sharper and stronger. As dead leaves began raining down, I did begin to worry a heavy branch might follow-then suddenly I was smacked in the nose! "Ahhhh!" As I jumped back-waving my arms like a madwoman at the ossified bird's nest that had struck me-dark purple clouds eclipsed the last sliver of afternoon sun and thunder rolled over the treetops. Geez, Jack cracked. I can see why your panties are bunched. "My panties are just fine! Not that my unmentionables are any of your business." Okay then, if it's not these creepy trees that have you rattled, what is it? You got ants in your pants about something. "Stop talking about my underthings." The ghost did. Then he stopped talking altogether. With resignation, I sighed and admitted the truth. "All right, Jack, you're not wrong. I mean, I am-for lack of a better word-antsy." What's the headache? "I hate doing things I don't want to do, and right now I have to ask someone to do me a huge favor." Okey-doke. Who do you want sprawled on a cold marble slab and how do you want it done? "Stop teasing. Nobody's getting whacked. I'm heading to the Finch Inn to offer a woman a job, that's all." And she's doing you a "huge favor" by accepting? The world sure has flipped its wig. In my day, a job offer was followed by a tip of the fedora and a hearty thank-you. "Under normal circumstances that would be true, but not in this case." What makes this dame so special? "She's not a dame. She's a nomad." A what? "Norma has no permanent address. She lives in a van and travels around the country for most of the year." She's a hobo, then? A bum? "We don't use those words anymore. Norma is a vagabond. They call it living the van life. It's a cultural trend. They've even got a hashtag for it." Hash what? Oh, you mean they're hopheads? Hooked on hashish? "No, not hashish! Hashtag. It's a social media category, a trend so popular, thousands use its label to brand their lifestyle. Norma lives the #vanlife." I don't follow. "I'll break it down for you. Norma moves around the country, taking different jobs during different seasons. For the last two years, she's spent her autumns in New England, doing housekeeping work at the Finch Inn. In exchange for her help from Labor Day to the New Year, Fiona pays Norma a weekly wage and provides a room for her, too." So, you're trying to snatch her away from the competition? "

PRAIRIE -- "A Christmas They Never Forgot" Episode 11 -- Aired 12/21/81 -- Pictured: Lindsay Greenbush as Carrie Ingalls, Wendi Turnaugh as Grace Ingalls, Missy Francis as Cassandra Cooper Ingalls,...