I took the motorcycle for an hour long bike ride this Tuesday; my plan was to make it to Williams Ford and then to Windyville.

Williams Ford is on the Niangua River, not far from River Jim's. It's out of the way, down an old gravel road, like all great places in the Ozarks. Tree covered lanes, covered by orange gravel, barely let two cars pass one another. I love taking the motorcycle down narrow roads that meander through valleys where round bales line up waiting for a winter snow. I can't believe how beautiful the Ozarks can be. Nor how dangerous gravel roads are on a small motorcycle.

Williams Ford looking north from the low water bridge.

I took a quick turn and the bike slid out from underneath me. I have this great cherry red scar at the end of my elbow now, and I am lucky that that's all there is to it. I could have stayed home and stayed soft, but when I see you again, I'll proudly show you my scar.

Windyville is supposed to be haunted. That's the reason I took the motorcycle trip here anyway. There are a few stories on the internet, and even some of Abby's friends have come here to find troubled spirits.

Of course the real ghosts aren't in the town, but in the names of the town. "Williams Ford" and "Windyville" are the remnants, the shadows, the memories that remain of people's lives that try to speak to us today. Who was Williams and why Windy? Who were the pioneers that once worked this ground and raised families?

The scary part is that what once was so important is now gone, or remains only a vague ghost of what once was. That is the real haunting.