TRICK OR TREAT

Joan Shepherd

Matt was in his room on the second floor of the house and it was night, Halloween night. Why was he in his room instead of outside with the other kids? He wondered that too. Something had happened downstairs and his parents got very upset and started arguing, pushing one another around when his dad suddenly was aware Matt was watching them from the hall.

"Go to your room!" Dad shouted and started pushing Matt up the stairs, into his room, and adding quickly, "l'm going to lock the door. You will be all right. I have to go settle something with your mother."

Matt was hurt. This had happened many times before. Why did they have to lock the door to his room? Maybe they knew he hated their frequent fighting and in fact, hated them. But what could he do? He was a thin, 9 years old and physically unable to stop their fights. He had tried yelling and once, even got to the phone and called 911 !  That really made them mad and that's probably why they locked the door to his room.

There wasn't much to do in his bedroom, no TV and he didn't feel like doing homework. He wished he had a costume and was outside with the other kids, trick or treating and getting some candy. He opened the window easily and decided it was too far up to jump out but at least he could watch the action below. Kids were laughing, some adults staying behind while doors opened and candy or something was given out. Hum. Fat chance his dad would ever go with him to celebrate Halloween. Some candy would be good, but not those orange and yellow candies shaped like a kernel of corn. For some reason, he hated those. What he really liked were those small candy bars that could be consumed in 2 bites. He felt even worse as he saw kids eating some of their candy, tossing wrappers aside without concern. He would be punished if he did that.

A girl about his size walked alone down the street in a witch costume, Did he know her? Hard to tell with her get-up. Black of course, tall hat with a kind of sheer veil flowing down her back. A short broom was held in her hand along with a paper sack. "Hey, Margie", he shouted from the window, thinking now that he did recognize her from school. She didn't respond.

A group of three kids, their costumes disguising whether boys or girls, were good representatives of being a clown, cowboy, and a ghost. Coming to his own house, he listened as they rang the bell but his folks didn't answer the door. He could hear their voices, still full of anger. How he hated being in this house. He wished he could live somewhere else with different parents. Or even live alone in the woods, making a shelter and eating berries and catching fish to cook over a bon fire. Shoot. That will never happen, just let me dress up in something and get outside with the others and I wouldn't even complain if I got an apple instead of a little Babe Ruth bar.

Three realistically costumed witches then walked by, older girls, probably teen agers. "You're looking good!" he shouted, "Fly up to my room and take me away." They turned, looked up and waved at him. Getting more annoyed he started pounding on the door. Nothing happened. He was kind of hungry, too. He didn't know how he felt except angry. How could he get out of there?

The Halloweeners had mostly gone and his elbows were tired of leaning on the window sill so he moved to the bed, laying on top of the covers, and dozed between thoughts, when he heard a commotion at the window. A tall black hat was thrown inside, its veil spread out on the floor. He sat up, staring, as a face appeared in the window. "Come help me", a struggling voice sounded, while shoulders and arms protruded from the window. "My broom is about to fall."

Matt hesitated, confused with this intrusion but fascinated. The witch made her entrance with his help and the broom was safely held between her legs. "My friends will be here in a moment", a kind of scratchy voice came from a wrinkled face,"'We got the message of your troubles and came to help." This ended with another hat thrown in the window, then a broom, and finally a torso easily worked itself inside.

"Hi, Matt are you OK?" What's going on?" she questioned. Then a third hat was tossed into the room, but this witch was heavier and needed her fellow witches to help her make the move. And then, without any involvement whatsoever, a broom came flying through the window. "Thanks, my pet.", said the last arrival to her broom.  And to Matt, "l've trained it well as I've had it a long time. You will love having a ride on her." 

" What is going on?", Matt asked again. 

"Our three nieces heard you call to them a while ago and using their celestial phones; called home and told us to come get you. We could hear terrible commotion downstairs so didn't bother them. But we have a nice place for you and a delightful ride getting there."

The first witch interrupted saying they had to hurry. "You don't need to bring anything, Matt. I am going to lead the pack. You will ride with Matilda and Ophelia will cover us from the back. My name is Samantha but you will know us well, soon enough. Now let's go!"

The witches put on their hats, rearranged their veils, grabbed their brooms and lined up at the window. "Come on, Matt, jump on board!" Matilda smiled. Matt wondered if he should ride side-saddle or straddle the broom. He decided to straddle so he could hang onto    Matilda, but grabbed a pillow to put on the broom before he jumped on,

Ducking their heads, hat first, the trio left through the window one by one.

It was too bad everyone had gone and didn't witness this spectacular scene. But they probably wouldn't believe what they saw, anyway. Three witches riding their brooms in  the darkened sky, the moon behind them and ... what is that? It looks like two people on the middle broom. Where are they going?

EPILOG:  Matt never did go back home. He became indoctrinated into being a Warlock and found life much more enjoyable in the conclave of witchdom. But once in awhile, he would fly by his old house and smile, remembering the night of Trick or Treat when he got his treat for sure.

2012

Jack and the Bangers

DAVE LEWIS

Jack was a teenaged boy who lived in the three digit part of the first millennium. He lived in that part of the British Isles where  traces of Pict and Celt genes are usually found. Jack's family and tribe displayed the Pict's short physical stature and an affinity for tattoos.  When a stranger moved into the neighborhood forest who was much taller than Jack's tribe, he was identified as a GIANT. 

In fact the stranger was only in the upper decile of the heights of his family and neighbors at home.  He was a Viking berserker that was about 72 barley corns taller than Jack's father. The Viking had a name of course but he was always just GIANT to Jack's tribe.  GIANT had retired from the Viking trade when the forearm he preferred for sword-wielding  was lopped off.  He stuck to it for four a five years with a hook in place of the hand.   GIANT decided to get out of the berserker business while he still wore a head so he deserted a pillaging party and set up a dwelling in a forest in the English Isles. GIANT didn't bother the native Pict tribe and they stood clear of him, keeping him under close watch. 

Jack was a natural born snoop so he volunteered for the majority of the GIANT oversight.  He found a tree he could climb that enabled him to see into the GIANT'S hut. He watched day and night and observed the daily routine of the big man.  GIANT'S  behavior was so strange to Jack that he had trouble reporting it to the elders - to whom it was also strange.  It is a human trait to fear and distrust a stranger's behavior that is unknown to the observer.

What Jack saw the GIANT doing was repeatedly chopping up meat, onions, wild garlic, various leaves, tubers he dug up in strange places, and mushrooms.  He braised them in a clay pot and then stuffed them into deer entrails that he had cleaned and cured. At intervals of about 24 barley corns the GIANT tied a knot across a gap in the stuffed intestines. The GIANT dug up salt and applied it to the rope of linked parcels. Then he hung them along his ceiling to cure.  He was observed cutting some of the oldest parcels or links from the rope and then cooking them on an open fire.  The heated link was considered edible by the GIANT when the juices inside boiled and ruptured the link walls with a loud noise.  When Jack tried to recreate the noise for the elders, it came out phonetically as BANG.  Soon a string of these meat based parcels got the name: BANGERS.

It was unfortunate that this phonetic description of an exploding sausage sounded to the Picts as near to the term they used to describe themselves.  When Jack reported an approximation of a chantey the GIANT sang when he returned to his hut, the linguistic coincidences became more sinister.  The GIANT was singing in Old Norse, "I detect the aroma of roasting bangers."  The elders pondered over Jack's rendition of the GIANT'S tune and they deduced he was saying: "I smell the blood of a Pict for dining."  Pictese was just vaguely similar to Old Norse. They decided the GIANT had to be eliminated before he started dining on Picts. They delegated the killing strategy to Jack.  He was the  son of the tribal chief after all.

By now the GIANT had trained a wolf cub to track game for him.  The wolf cub also subsisted on and relished bangers.  Jack stole a chain of the GIANT'S bangers  and dragged some along a prepared trail that went under an immense hornet's nest. The nest was higher than the wolf, higher than Jack, higher than any Pict but at head level for the GIANT. The wolf picked up the scent and started on the trail at full speed, the GIANT close behind. The wolf ran under the hornet's  nest without stirring up a reprisal but when the GIANT broad-sided the nest, the hornets swarmed his head.  As the panicked GIANT tried to brush away the stinging hornets, he knocked himself unconscious with his iron hook-hand and the GIANT fell in the forest.  A squad of waiting Picts smoked the hornets away, trussed the giant with stout bonds of vines and leather and dragged him into their compound where a stake and bon-fire fuel were ready.  The GIANT woke up positioned rather like a banger ready to be toasted.

The Pict's party didn't go as planned because a squad of marauding Vikings heard some loud Norse swearing and appeals to Odin. The Vikings arrived on the scene just as the fire was to be lit and they quickly dePicted the area.  Only  Jack survived to pass the tale - much revised - on to posterity.

The  Vikings used the bonfire materials to roast a fair amount of bangers.  They were very impressed. It sure beat dried fish on a long voyage and it went well with lefse and the Pict's ale. The GIANT, not especially large among his countrymen, reverted to his real name of Hagar.  He became the cook on the dragon ship and with his share of the plunder, retired to a farm in Iceland where his tale was memorized  by the poets and eventually written four hundred years later.   Now however, most people have only heard  Jack's version.  It was more adaptable by Disney.

2013

SEATTLE ZEPHYR

JOAN SHEPHERD

There was only one 1937 Lincoln Zephyr in Salt Lake in the '40's and it was our car. I was too young to realize the status of that luxury car but it was big enough to hold three to four kids in the back seat. It seemed grandly spacious compared to the rumble seat of Dad's coupe where we were packed in like sardines and sang out to the world, "You screarn, I scream, we all scream for ice cream."

This silvery Lincoln had a shiny metal bar lengthwise across the back of the front seat, which, I think, was intended to hold a blanket or something. Instead, kids stood up holding on to that bar and smashed their teeth into bloody smiles whenever the car made a swerve or sudden stop. Let's hear it for seat belts!

My father ran a truck line shipping freight from Utah to Arizona.  He purchased a new truck cab in Seattle and some of the family, omitting the youngest and oldest, made a trip in the Zephyr to pick it up. I was 7 or 8 years, the younger of my two other sisters. In Seattle, we stayed in a fancy hotel that boasted every room had a circular bay window with a view. My parents went out and left us in the room one evening with strict directions to be good and be quiet. I was particularly fascinated that they brought us the Sunday newspaper and it was only Saturday. How could that happen? Also, the room had a tiny kitchen hidden behind bifold doors, another miracle for me. We read the Sunday funnies and amused ourselves for a bit when the phone rang.

"There has been a complaint about the noise in your room. You will have to be more quiet." said the authoritarian voice of the phone. We were scared to death! Could our giggles be heard in the next room? We began to talk only in whispers, and only when necessary. We denied any problems when our parents returned and it was years later before Dad confessed he had told the desk person to call with that message.

The truck was delivered and the car loaded onto the empty truck bed behind the cab. We girls rode in the car considerably higher than the usual car on the road. My parents were driving the truck and we were not too far out of Seattle when stopped by the police. Apparently, the license for the truck was inadequate and rather than giving my Dad a ticket, the police allowed us to turn back to Seattle to get the right licensing. The problem was, we were on a narrow road with a river on one side. Now this truck with the car attached to the bed was long and it took a series of minuscule turns to make a full U turn. I was petrified we would end up in the river and drown. I still don't know how he made it or why he wasn't directed to a more open space to make the turn!  But we didn't drown and we made it back to get the right papers or whatever necessary and headed back to Utah.

We had been severely notified while in this heightened car overlooking everyone else, of the rules: Do not play the radio. Do not honk the horn. Either one of these would run down the battery and we would be in serious trouble. In addition for me, was the fact that I didn't exactly know how the car was fastened to this flat bed and who knows, a rope could fray or a chain break and the car would slide of in slow motion and our parents couldn't be warned cause we couldn't honk the horn and they could drive miles away before they noticed the car was missing with three little girls inside, dead or mangled into bits and pieces.

Less dramatic was how to let them know of our needs, like going to the bathroom. Mother and Dad must have been having a wonderful time talking without any kids to bother them and Dad was a determined driver setting exact spots of where to eat or get gas. Knowing his schedule might take more time than our bladders could hold, the oldest sister got the idea of making a note and holding it up to the windshield, praying that our parents would see it. Fortunately, she knew how to spell TOILET, wrote it in big letters on a piece of paper and we took turns holding it to the windshield. I'm sure Dad saw it right away through his rear view mirror but with his weird sense of humor, continued driving until HE was ready to stop and help us out of the car and off the truck bed.

We had to stay overnight someplace and all I remember was motel in a kind of woodsy environment. Dad again in his "Father Knows Best" philosophy  ... although that program hadn't appeared yet, decided we needed to depart very early in the morning leaving mother to get her daughters ready. It is still vivid to me, lying half asleep and mother putting on my shoes and socks, moving on to the next child and me taking them off because no one ever went to bed with their shoes on. The early morning was dark and cold. Obviously, we couldn't have heat in the car, so we were put in the back seat and Dad took one of the motel blankets to put over us. He left a note and a $10 bill. Now I knew the police would come get us for robbery even though I thought $10 was a lot of money but still, he took it without permission. But we made it home without Mom and Dad going to jail and us kids to an orphanage.

I would give anything to have a photo of six curious eyes of three girls peering out the window of the silver Lincoln Zephyr on top of a flat bed truck being driven by a man and a woman with smiles on their faces.

June 23, 2010 

PIPPIE MERIWETHER - A HALLOWEEN STORY

By Meta Strauss

Pippie Meriwether was an odd bird.  At least that’s what the town’s people said.  The truth was she was different, different from them. She couldn’t help that she inherited her Great-grandmother’s frizzy pumpkin colored hair, her dad’s large brown eyes and pointed nose and her mother’s miniature stature. 

To make matters stranger, she resided in a large dilapidated Victorian house on top of the highest hill in town and had been brought up by reclusive parents.

Her dad’s formaldehyde-smelling taxidermy shop was located in their home.  When she was a small child, customers would see Pippie’s tiny face peaking out from behind the large stuffed Grisly Bear when they delivered dead animals and picked up the completed trophies.  Pippie wasn’t impressed with the carcass of a deer or an elk but she was enamored with the sight of a lifeless Eagle or other bird of prey.  The way her dad would peal the feathers away, store then in a wooden container and then replace them one by one on a bare plaster image held her attention day after day.  She liked the way he would place their claws and beaks in fighting positions.

Pippie’s mother provided the conversation in her early life. She would sit across from the child in the dark, musty, book-lined library and read out loud.  Her choice of stories didn’t include Goldie Locks and the Three Bears, but instead, selections from the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe and H.P. Lovecraft. By age four, Pippie had the exceptional ability to memorize and recite verbatim anything she heard.

           

Her father drove her down the hill around the corner to school each day in his old black Packard. He insisted on parking and walking her to the door. The little girl didn’t understand seeing a tall, thin man wearing all black, including a fedora, holding the hand of a small, quiet orange-headed girl wearing long dresses with lace collars would seem unusual. But, as parents dropped their noisy jean-clad children off at the curb, they warned them not to play with her. 

Three weeks into first grade, Pippie picked up a dead Raven from the playground, caressed it and packed it in her lunch box and then presented it at show and tell a week later all stuffed and mounted.  When she told about the bird, she recited:

”This ominous bird of yore,

This grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

Croaks, `Nevermore, Nevermore.'”

The teacher was so horrified, she asked for the child to be removed from her class. From that time on Pippie’s records were stamped “not normal.” She remained in special education classes with all the other children who weren’t cookie-cutter copies of each other until one day in high school she just stopped attending.  The authorities didn’t bother to check on her.  They were glad not to have to take care of another special child.

             

Years passed.  Her dad’s taxidermy shop closed and there was some talk about it for a while but soon another topic became more interesting gossip.  Since no one ever saw her mother, her disappearance never even crossed their minds.

           

Pippie’s schedule was always the same. Each Monday she walked down the hill and into town.  Her pumpkin colored hair and distinctive drab clothing could be seen as she walked around, if a person was observant.  Most never noticed the tiny lady or her large canvas bag. No one noticed the absence of stray cats in town. 

           

On Wednesdays she went to the library.  The librarian remarked, “That peculiar little carrot-haired woman always checks out six books, no more, no less. Three are about travel, two are about anatomy and one is a popular romance.  Don’t you find that strange?  I do.” 

           

Each Sunday at 9:00 AM Pippie would attend mass at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Father McNamara was the one individual who noticed the tiny woman sitting in the back row of the balcony, spellbound by the chants that echoed throughout the old building.  He would wave as she exited the church’s side door.

           

Every year on Halloween teenagers dared each other to venture up the hill and knock on “the little witch’s” door.  Sometimes they threw rotten eggs or fruit. This year as the weather grew cooler and the trees turned red, orange and yellow Pippie prepared for the costumed teenagers.  She would have a surprise for them this time. 

           

A full moon cast deep shadows from the rocks and trees leading up the winding gravel road.  As Willie Cravens and two of his buddies neared the house only one light shown in the downstairs window.       

           

“You go first,” said Harry Green to Willie.

“No, I’ll carry and throw the tomatoes since I’m the best thrower.”

“Yeah!  You’re so brave,” added Bubba Parker.

The trio tiptoed up the front walk avoiding brambles and loose rocks. 

“Boo!”

“Damn it Willie.  You do that again and I’m out of here.”

“Shhhh!  She’s gonna hear us.”

“Hey man.  Look.  The front door is open.

“Now what’re we gonna do?”

“I say let’s go in.”  Willie was getting braver and took the lead.  The other two boys followed him in the squeaky front door.

“Oh my God.”  Bubba tripped and fell down. “It’s a bear.  I thought it was real for a minute, but it’s stuffed.” 

“Geez.  Look at this place.”  Harry yelped.

 “Yikes!”  Bubba jumped as something slid against his leg.

“It’s only a cat.”  Willie set the bag of tomatoes on the floor.

“It’s only a gillion cats,” said Harry surrounded by meowing creatures. 

“Caw, Caw.”

“What is that?”

“Oh man.  Look at this room.  It’s filled with birds in cages and hanging from the walls.  This is freaky.”

“That’s not all.  Look around.  This place is full of stuffed animals. 

“Hey guys, Let’s get out of here before the witch finds us. This is the creepiest place I’ve ever been.” The boys ran down the hill like villagers fleeing from a volcano’s molten lava, yelling all the way.  They were so frightened they confessed to their parents what happened. “I’m telling you mom, that place is bizarre.  There are live and dead animals all over.  I don’t ever want to go there again.”

           

“That poor little woman. She never bothers a soul.  You boys will apologize and do it right now,” said Willie’s mom.

           

The three boys followed Willie’s parents up the moonlit hill.  The mansion’s yard was full of cats and birdcalls greeted them at the still-opened front door. Mr. Cravens knocked and yelled. After a short wait he ushered his family through the vaulted entry hall and into the creepy old house.  There was no sign of Peppi Meriwether, but there was plenty to see……………..

           

What they found?  Well, as you sit around your caldron with fellow goblins on Halloween, you can speculate and share stories about what you think happened to the little witch and at the house on the hill that night.

 

Halloween at Reader's Books, Sonoma

EASY DOES IT

By Fran Dayan

        This morning she felt her life was passing her by, that she couldn’t do this rigorous gambit into the wild anymore. It was really not all that wild in this gem of an ancient hot springs in the heart of Carmel Valley. It was breathtakingly achingly beautiful.                                                                            

            The sunlight playing on the intensely green leaves of the forest of old sycamores, birches and pines, leaves rustling in the wind, looking up sheer mountain cliffs reveling in the pristine rugged beauty of Tassajara.  Granite rocks taking you down to the ice cold stream that runs through the valley. Once reaching it, you immerse yourself deeply, feeling part of the beginning of the knowledge of beauty.

            The stage ride down was a hot, one and one-half hour, fourteen mile bumpy, gravely extremely curvy road where a few who drove it themselves had died driving off the road and down the mountain. At the end of the road stretches a pristine wilderness with hot springs and a cold stream running through it. It took her breath away every time, it made her ache with happiness. She had been coming most of every year for 40 years, it kept calling her back.

            This morning her body hurt so badly after sleeping on a hard tatami  in a cold cabin and the night before sitting on chilly rocks looking up at the vast brilliant sky. It was getting harder to walk to the hot tubs from their cabin, her back ached, her leg had shooting pain and spasms. She was feeling too old and achy to be here. She thought to herself. This is the last time you should come, you must say goodbye”. Like leaving a lover you can’t make love to anymore. But it was so beautiful how could she leave it forever?

            This back and forth dialogue continued all day and into the night. It was too strenuous. It was too beautiful to leave forever. 

            Finally she settled into a calmed state with the realization that she in fact was older now and had to accept the changes in her body, make love to this exquisite wilderness differently, love her body differently. No long hikes, no walking in Berkinstocks,  a more comfortable more expensive, warmer cabin closer to the hot tubs. No scrambling over rocks to the Narrows. Maybe not come every year. She’d work it out. She had to. She couldn’t leave it for good. Life was too precious to give up on the beautiful things you love. “Just easy does it” she thought.

Fran Dayan