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.