A truly frightening Halloween

Halloween 2024. Just like many Halloweens before this, the ghosts, ghouls, goblins and the undead are around us. Skeletons loom over front yards and spider webs stretch to give their giant 8-legged denizens a place to pray on unsuspecting passers by. Yet this is a truly scary time. Scarier than we might ever have imagined. Because a true monster is walking among us. And this monster is real. He hides behind his orange makeup but this is only a thin veil and really he is hiding in plain sight. He is tapping into our fears. Making us worry about the “other”, those who are different from us. He conjures up horrific acts, getting us to imagine that rapes and murders are taking place on every street corner. And these are being done by the “others” that only he has the power to control. He will cast these others out, like the witches were cast out of Salem, Massachusetts all those decades ago. Cast them out and only then can we be safe. If you doubt these claims about brutal crimes, he taps into more sinister fears. Fears that your dogs and cats, your beloved pets, are being eaten by these others. Eaten in the streets of Ohio. No neighborhood is safe. And he speaks of a very demonic sounding “enemy within”. This conjures up images of that Alien life form that took up host in the unsuspecting space explorer, only to be birthed in a blood outburst after reaching its first stage of life. But this monster will not tolerate the “enemy within”. He will call down wrath upon them, even using the U.S. military against them if he deems fit. We have all seen him in one of his unholy trances, under control of the evil spirits as he swayed on a stage for almost 40 minutes, communing with his evil overlords. His earthly minions march like hordes of the undead to hear him speak. They wear blood red hats in homage to the bloody sacrifice and bloody vengeance they yearn to wreak in his name. Sometimes at these gatherings, he speaks in another language that no one can understand, yet somehow they all still cheer and support him. He cares not a whit about anyone but himself. He wants it all. He wants to have power over all of us. He wants to rule with an iron fist like those other walking monsters that he reveres - Hitler and Mussolini and Victor Orban. He is a defiler of women and sees them only as objects for his pleasure. He doesn’t see the Earth as a fragile home for humanity. It is another object for him to plunder and expand his riches. He may be the most formidable monster we have ever had to deal with. But, collectively, we have the power to destroy him. It won’t take a cross or a wooden stake through the heart. All it will take is your vote. Don’t let the monster live. Send him back to the underworld to live with his kind. Vanquish him from our lives forever.

A Chance to be Cool

    For once I felt like I was part of the “in” crowd. I had been invited to a party at the cool kids house. In this case, the cool kids were Jim and Cherie. I’m using the term “kids” somewhat loosely since most of the guests, including yours truly, were in their 50s, 60s and maybe beyond. You know that warm, fuzzy feeling you get when the invite comes your way. My inner kid was beaming. The occasion was the aptly named “pestopalooza”. I guess that means you can put “palooza” after almost anything these days and it makes it into some kind of grand extravaganza. I had heard of this celebration of all things pesto in the past, but for some reason, the stars had never aligned properly to allow me to attend. Luckily for me, Jim and Cherie live a mere 5 minute bike ride from my house. The invite came with a promise of sending me home with a jar of pesto, so how could I say no. I even had heard rumors about the possibility of basil-infused desserts, which sounded exotic. I wasn’t too sure I would like those but, hell, I’ll try almost anything food related at least once.

    The weather was not going to be a factor as this particular Vermont fall was serving up day after day of near perfect temperatures and azure skies with wisps of clouds to ensure killer sunsets. Earlier that day, the warmth had encouraged wasps around our house into a kind of frenzy and while we were finishing up a painting project accessed from a roof, they took to buzzing close to my head like miniature alien spacecraft on sinister black wings. If I ignored them, they mostly went about their business (whatever that was) and let me continue with my painting. After cleaning up from the painting project, I dressed in my very casual (and typical) Vermont outfit of jeans and a T-shirt. As soon as the sun started going behind the hills to the west, the temperature started to drop. I threw a fleece into the bag on my bike in case it got really cool. I wasn’t sure if this was a fully indoor or outdoor event or some kind of hybrid, free flowing from the house to the back yard. 

    Since I know Jim and Cherie, I wasn’t nervous but you know how it is when you head over to the cool kids house. You don’t want to make a social gaff that lands you in the undesirables corner for an undetermined amount of time until you get back into good graces. I had some guesses about who might be there since we live in a small neighborhood where I know most of the residents. Jim has recently joined the ranks of the retired (good choice Jim, I don’t think you’ll regret it) and Cherie teaches and makes art. I figured there might be some artsy types at the party and that was OK with me. 

    The invite said that drinks started at 5 PM (BYOB) and I showed up at a fashionably late 5:30 with a single can of beer in tow. I mean, this wasn’t like those high school days of bad keg beer and bottles of liquor stolen from Mom and Dad’s cupboard. I knew that Jim was known to partake not only in basil but in another leafy green plant that grows buds and I’m totally cool with that. But I had my days with Mary Jane and, at least for now, she and I have parted ways. 

    I thought about my trip to their house the day before. I had mistakenly put the event on my calendar for Saturday when it was actually set for Sunday (could have been a major faux pas). I swung by on Saturday to let Jim know I wouldn’t be able to help with the pesto manufacturing process but would be by later for dinner. He was sitting on the steps with a large bowl full of green buds. I had to examine it closely to identify their variety and recognized them as basil. If they had been that other cash crop, it would seem that Jim was really getting ready to party! Jim gently corrected me on the date and I admitted to my mix-up. When in doubt, admit fallibility. Don’t try to fake your way out of one of these situations, it will always come back to bite you. 

    I put aside my musings about the day before and entered the kitchen to see Jim busy with several pots of water heating up on the stove and alternating between checking them and slicing up fresh tomatoes and mozzarella for a salad (surely there would be some basil added to that as well). I recognized a couple of neighbors but other guests only seemed vaguely familiar. It’s a small town, so recognizing people is not too surprising. The first person I get introduced to is named Jonathan. So, with me being there, this was at least a two-Jonathan party and who could ask for better than that? My friend Larry was there, getting button-holed about his legislative work. Poor guy never gets a break. He put on a brave face and dove right into the issue. I guess if you’re drinking a pint of double IPA, almost anything is tolerable. 

    I meandered outside to grab some chips, veggies and some of Jim’s famous basil dip. There was already a fire going in the middle of a circle of chairs. Guests were either sitting or standing around it balancing plates and drinks as they chatted. The mosquitoes were making a last ditch end of season effort to siphon off as much human blood as possible. Thankfully, smoke from the fire was doing a decent job of keeping them at bay. I hadn’t brought a hat, so my bald head made for a great target. Cherie was at the grill cooking a large pile of sausages to go with the pesto pasta under Jim’s watch. Dinner was imminent. After a long day of climbing in and out the third floor window onto our roof, dodging wasps, and painting, my stomach was growling. 

    Dinner was buffet style and once the food was set out the kitchen became a chaotic maelstrom of plates, silverware and food getting piled up. There was an approximation of order as people served up salad, two different kinds of pasta and picked out their sausage. I sat at a large round table on the screen porch where our once a month poker group meets when the weather allows. I almost expected to see a deck of cards and felt a slight panic when I realized I hadn’t brought any pennies. I was introduced to people around the table and we talked about old Vermont houses and how we all came to be in this little central Vermont town. I guess I’m somewhat of an “old-timer” now. Not in Vermont terms, because I don’t come from 7 generations (or whatever the current metric is) of Vermont farmers living in the same town. Regardless, I still consider myself a Vermonter and have lived in Randolph for 29 years, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere.

    As the conversation evolved, I learned that Vermont is already seeing some climate and political migration. In one case, a couple had moved from the Shenandoah valley because they couldn’t stand the politics. I wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. I always pictured that place as a bastion of peace and tranquility. I was shocked as they described a local militia with the sole entry requirement of new members coming with their own AR-15 (yikes!). Then they shared the story of a Black Lives Matter march that had been buzzed by a pickup truck full of rifle carrying folks who didn’t seem too sympathetic to the cause. They had had enough and moved to Vermont. Good choice and now they got to take part in pestopalooza. 

    I learned that Jim and the other Jonathan are a couple of New Jersey jamokes. I guess I can excuse that since I was born in Manhattan. Vermonters like to look down on what they term “flatlanders”, but really, this is the darn 21st century folks. It’s going to take all types to keep Vermont from devolving to a museum and playground for second home owners. But I don’t want to digress into my own fears and apprehension about the future of our beloved state. I’m just glad I got to party with the cool kids! I’m even glad that I got to try a basil infused brownie (although I have to admit that when I saw a plate of brownies, I wondered what Jim might have infused it with).

    As the party wound down, the last remaining attendees gathered around the fire pit, watching the sparks float up to the sky. The crickets serenaded us and Homer (the cool dog at the party), weaved his way around our legs. The logs snapped as the flames warmed our faces. I didn’t ask, but I’m hoping that I can now be considered one of the cool kids and get invited to whatever palooza comes next.

Wooly Bear Redux

   

At the floating bridge near Pond Village, Brookfield, VT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My wife and I spent the weekend exploring central Vermont on two wheels. No, we weren't cruising around on a Harley. We prefer the non-motorized variety, namely our so-called "gravel grinders". These bikes look like the traditional road bike with  drop handlebars, but they allow for beefier tires and have low gearing for humping it up all the hills around our picturesque little valley. Both days were sublime in terms of the weather. When the sun was out from behind the few puffy white clouds, it was warm and welcome as we turned our faces to smile back at it. The afternoon light filtering down through the multi-hued leaves was magical. There is nothing like the quality of sunlight in Vermont in October. It felt like a beam from another world that might just sweep me up and transport me somewhere else. Somewhere with no wars, no political strife, no climate change. A world of hope and promise. 

        On Saturday, we biked out to an unmaintained road that we used to mountain bike in our younger days. We biked up as far as we dared, then parked our bikes against a tree and changed into better shoes for walking and started out along the old road. I imagined horses pulling wagons along this track, maybe hauling apples just picked from a nearby orchard. I imagined a simpler time that may have been tougher in some ways, but easier at the same time.After a round trip of about 4 miles, we re-mounted our bikes for the ride home. With the colorful leaves and fresh air, the miles rolled away with almost no effort. A long swooping downhill was the reward after all of the climbing we had done.

        Sunday started out with a thick layer of fog, but by mid morning, the sun had burned this away to reveal blue skies. We packed up the bikes again and rolled out of our driveway. Soon we were climbing out of the valley and towards the little settlement of "Pond Village". This collection of several residences and the Brookfield Old Town Hall is laid out along a dirt road that connects to the very unique floating bridge crossing Sunset Lake. The Old Town Hall had its annual fall market underway and we had planned on a lunch stop for some soup and bread. We sat outside in the sun on an old tree stump across from the hall and enjoyed our repast and fresh bread. We followed this up with some locally made cookies and coffee before getting back on the bikes for the return trip home. This included another joyful downhill with hundred year old maples lining the side of the curvy dirt road. Views to the distance yielded a tapestry of color against green fields and azure skies. Cows dotted the landscape to round out this Norman Rockwell-esque scene. 

        Throughout the day, we had encountered the wooly bear caterpillars that make their presence known this time of year. Some of them had not survived the trek across the road, but we carefully avoided them and announced their presence whenever we came across them. "Ooh! That one has a lot of brown. Doesn't that mean it will be a snowy winter?" I never remember the predictive criteria ascribed to these little creatures, so I'll believe what anyone tells me. Of course, we kind of hope for a snowy winter so we can enjoy the outdoors on cross country skis or snow shoes. The lore surrounding wooly bears is just another example of humans' desire to predict the future. We would love to know how things will turn out, even though that is mostly wishful thinking. Maybe there is another insect we can use to  assure ourselves that the election will result in a win for our candidate. One that will tell us that the wars will stop and people will treat each other with respect. One that will indicate that our home planet will survive the onslaught of man. When I find those tiny creatures and figure out how to read their patterns, I'll be sure to let you know.

    For now, though, please consider revisiting my blog post from last year about the lowly Wooly Bear. You might learn a thing or two and hopefully be entertained.

Ode to the cassette tape

 

 

    My wife and I are clearing out our big Victorian house in Randolph, Vermont. The house was originally built in 1905 and is three stories tall with about 3000 square feet of space. We have reached the proverbial “empty nesters” stage of life with the last of our three kids on the verge of moving out this weekend. It’s bittersweet for sure. We always wanted them to become successful, independent adults, but walking by those empty rooms yields a sense of nostalgia. We have a rough plan for downsizing to a smaller house, but many pieces have to fall in place to make that happen. One thing is for sure, there is no way we can, or should, take all of our current belongings with us.

    Anne calls to me from upstairs, “Jon. I think this box is yours.” I climbed up to the third floor, ducking instinctively as I negotiated the oddly configured third floor staircase that was not designed for anyone over 4 foot 6 inches tall. I pulled the cardboard box over to one of the twin beds, sat down and took off the cover. It was like being transported back 40 years. I was staring down at my own handwriting on the labels of about 50 or 60 cassette tapes. I browsed through the labels and even though my musical tastes have broadened over time, I saw many artists I still listen to - Allman Brothers, John Hiatt, Bob Marley, Paul Simon. I also noted a few that I had forgotten about over the years and made note of them. 

    In my head I knew that I should be throwing these tapes into the trash, but my heart was telling me something different. After all, I haven’t owned any kind of cassette deck in years and honestly I wasn’t sure this box of tapes still existed. The partner box (or maybe it was boxes) hadn’t survived a previous purge. After all, I have fully embraced the digital music format. In my pocket, I have access to literally millions of songs via my music app. That is, provided I have a good internet connection and my phone is working. 

    It was somewhat of a quirk of fate that I became a cassette afficianado. For some reason, when I bought my first stereo back in the late 70s when I was probably a sophomore in high school, I went with a cassette player and not a turntable. Back in elementary school, I had started with one of those portable cassette players that had a single built-in speaker (terrible sound quality), but that meant I already had the beginnings of a collection of albums on cassette. If memory serves, I had Close to the Edge by Yes, a couple of Elton John albums (Honky Chateau and Don’t Shoot the Piano Player) and maybe something by the Rolling Stones. I also had Toys in the Attic by Aerosmith and that was the first album I played on my new stereo once I had it set up. I’m sure this was much to the horror of my parents who were both professional classical musicians. 

    I did eventually get a turntable and a few LPs, but nothing beat the convenience of the cassette (that is until the time that the car player would “eat” the tape and you would gingerly pull it out, trailing the thin brown tape still hung up in the guts of the player). Then I discovered the art of recording albums. I probably saw this as a great cost-saving innovation. All I had to do is buy a few multi-packs of 90 minute blank cassettes and then borrow albums from friends for a few days of recording. My “go to” brands of blank tapes were TDK and Maxell. If you are somewhat near my age, you won’t have to use too much imagination to recreate the Maxell tape ad where the black-clad, very laid back dude is reclined in a chair positioned in front of a speaker. The music is literally blowing his long hair straight back from his head like a strong wind. I can see you nodding your head as you think back to that heyday of music recording. 

    The box of tapes at my feet represented dozens, maybe hundreds, of hours of effort. Making all of these tapes had been a labor of love. The idea of just tossing them in the trash was really hard to contemplate. It would be like throwing a piece of me away. The practical part of me knows that I’m not going to keep them around, taking up space in all of our future residences. I have a brief future vision of me ushering guests through our modest home after getting them a beverage of choice. “And over here are the last remaining cassettes I labored over in my teens and early 20s. Note how much care went into labeling them and getting all the song titles squeezed onto the small paper insert. Note the musical genre and artist diversity. Now, over here is my Monet.” No. That won’t be how things play out. 

    I love Spotify. Don’t get me wrong. But there was something about the art of making tapes. Like having the realization that there are a few seconds of leader before the recordable part of the tape starts. After a couple of mis-steps, it just became a habit to let a few seconds of tape roll before I started recording. The mix tapes were really my prize possession. Essentially, you were playing DJ for yourself, figuring out which songs would go together well. For now, there are a half dozen of these mixes I have held onto so I can reproduce them as a Spotify list. I did finally convince myself to let go of the regular albums I had taped, although I did jot down a few artists I had forgotten about - how could I not have any Joan Armatrading on my Spotify lists?  And what about Sonia Dada? I really liked them at one point. I wondered if they might be like some of the old books I’ve tried to re-read. At least a couple of times I have gone back to what was an old favorite and only made it maybe a dozen pages in before saying, “why did I like this book?” I suppose we don’t remain the same beings we were back in high school and college. We evolve. Tastes change. We get shaped by life and world events. We listen to new music. 

    So, now I’ve gone almost entirely digital with my music collection. I take my phone out of my pocket, unlock it and find the Spotify app. I open one of my 20 or so playlists - Folksy, Bluesy, Rockin’ Out, Jam Bands - scroll through the songs and hit play. If a particular song isn’t striking my fancy I just remove it with a couple of taps. I can always search for and re-add it later if I change my mind. In high school and college I couldn’t even have dreamed of this technology. I wish I had dreamed of it and found a software engineer to work with, then I could have retired quite a few years ago instead of just recently. 

There will always be a part of me that feels like it has all become just a little too easy. I wonder what we have lost now that no one has to make sure that the needle gets dropped in just the right groove with the tape deck paused and ready to start. No longer do you have to work on your handwriting and add your own personal touch to that mix tape for yourself or someone you care for. Are the new ways always better than the old ones? I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll go search for a cassette deck on ebay.

The Pantry

 

The Pantry

An active imagination can be a good thing. Or not. In my case, it’s both, but a few nights ago, it was decidedly not a good thing. We have a small pantry in our kitchen above a small broom closet. The pantry consists of two shelves where we store various dry goods: cereal, cans of tomato products and beans, and a number of old yogurt containers with nuts, dried beans, and grains. I first noticed the smell while reaching into the cupboard for some crackers. I wrinkled my nose at the foul odor. I stood there for a few seconds contemplating what it might be, but then I stuck my head further in and took a big sniff and the smell was gone. I grabbed the box of crackers and went back to fixing myself a snack.

A couple of nights later, while watching TV, I went back to the cupboard for a cookie. There was the smell again. There was no mistaking it this time and it wasn’t going away. We were almost ready to go to bed. That is decidedly a bad time to start thinking about what might be causing a bad smell in your kitchen. The end of the day is when my energy level bottoms out and pulling everything off the shelves was definitely not something I was willing to tackle. We vowed to deal with the cupboard in the morning. But I couldn’t let it go. I lay in bed and started cycling through the possibilities.

Unfortunately, one of my first ideas was that something had died up there, like that time I forgot about the mousetrap set in the back of one of the kitchen drawers during an ongoing mouse outbreak. That was another time a smell had alerted us to something being amiss. We pulled the drawer all the way out and were greeted with the unlucky mouse surrounded by dried blood from its demise of who knows how many days before. I tried to put this grisly image out of mind as I kept turning the pages of my book. I was trying to read long enough so I could fall asleep and forget about the smell and what might be causing it. As I was starting to drift off, Anne helpfully mentioned that her brother once had a snake die in the walls of his house, later discovered by the wafting of an unpleasant smell. Toss that image into the hopper of my imagination and I was off and running.

In the insult to injury category, as I lay there with my tumbling thoughts, I heard the scrabbling noise from whatever creature lives in the ceiling of our bedroom. I have theorized that it is a squirrel, although it could easily be a mouse. Either of those is preferable to it being a possum, which most surely it isn’t (it couldn’t be, right?). Months go by where we don’t hear it and then suddenly it comes back to life. Maybe it has gone on a brief vacation somewhere. Somewhere nice and warm like Florida or the Bahamas, where it can get some sunshine. Then it comes back to Vermont and finds its way into our house, scurrying around on just the other side of the sheetrock from where we are sleeping. Sometimes it sounds like chewing and I picture it gnawing through the ceiling, getting closer and closer to dropping through onto our bed, at which point we would jump out and commence the panicked screaming and thrashing.

With impeccable timing “the critter”, as we have named it, chose the night I was already struggling with horrible thoughts to make its reappearance. I knew that tomorrow we would be facing whatever the cupboard held in store and by “we” I meant “me”. I pictured myself standing on the chair that was needed to reach everything on the two shelves. As I pulled out one particularly critical box, whatever was back there, nested in the dark, would leap forward and in my fear I would stumble back off the chair, crashing towards the kitchen floor and most likely hitting my head on something hard on the way down. This could actually be the end of me. Just like that.

The next horrifying option is finding a rat-sized hole in the back of the cupboard that leads down to a giant warren of rats hiding out in our basement. Maybe you remember the movie from the ‘70s called “Willard”. It was about a troubled young man who befriends rats by the thousands who are trained to do his bidding. There is a scene in the movie where the rats are streaming out of their holes and look like a river of rushing water. This scene plays through my mind like I just watched it yesterday.

Maybe it’s a family of mice who somehow ended up in one of the cereal boxes. I will pick up the box and find it to be just a little heavier than it should be. One sniff tells me that this is the source of the problem. I tentatively undo the top, shaking the contents out into a container and the family of mice pours out. If any of them are alive, I will run screaming from the room and find someone else (someone braver) to come deal with this particular horror. At least in that scenario, I get in touch with the cereal company to start discussing the lawsuit I plan to file if they don’t make things right with a tidy sum of money to make me and my very legitimate complaint go away.

Last, but not least, my mind goes to the xenomorph from the first Alien movie. Spoiler alert. You’ll have to skip the rest of this paragraph if you haven’t seen this classic movie and still plan to. Don’t tell me you don’t know what a xenomorph is! In this classic 1990s space thriller, the hapless astronauts are exploring a distant planet. A hibernating creature leaps at the helmet of one of the explorers. After getting him back on board, all seems fine. That is, until the gestating creature is done using him as a host and decides to burst out of his chest in what has to be one of cinema's most dramatic, horrifying and shocking scenes. So, yeah, that could happen when I’m going through the cupboard as well. Is it any wonder I didn’t get much sleep that night?

The next morning comes way too soon. I take a deep breath and try to mentally prepare for whatever awaits me in the pantry. I pull out boxes of cereal, tentatively feeling their weight. Extra boxes of crackers and a few bottles of wine and vinegar all gather on the kitchen table. So far, so good. Nothing has leaped out yet. I start on the top shelf. Cans of tomato sauce and coconut milk stack up on the counter. Why do we have all of these empty yogurt containers? I check several of the yogurt containers filled with lentils, rice, and other dry items and they are all OK. The smell is getting stronger. I start to open the containers of dried beans. I pry back one lid and the sharp smell of decay literally leaps into my face and I reactively close the container. A brief vision of the xenomorph flits through my mind. I go outside with the offending beans and dump them on our mulch pile. The rotten clump of beans plops unceremoniously onto the other refuse, rolling down the slope to rest against the fence. I half expect the clotted mass of beans to start moving towards me, maybe even to take up residence in my body until they reach their full maturity en route to taking over our house. Like I said, a good imagination is a blessing and a curse.