The Big C: Cancer or Comedy

I was talking to my doctor and he said they did a 360 degree scan of my head and they couldn't find a thing.

I had a PET scan yesterday and the results came back positive. I have pets. I can't even imagine what the CAT scan will reveal.

I asked my radiation oncology nurse if I would be able to serve as my own nightlight. She said no. I asked her if my food gets cold would I be able to place my hands over it to reheat it. She said no. I asked her if I got bit by a spider would I be able to swing from buildings. She said no. I asked her what fun is there then. She said I could take home my mask when I'm done with treatment. Halloween 2015 - look out!

I've decided that when my radiation treatment is complete I'm going to join the army - as a depleted uranium shell.

My doctor said when I'm done with the radiation therapy, there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to enjoy a long and happy half-life.

I think I'm the only cancer patient on Earth that GAINED weight during therapy.

For those of you who'd like to catch my show, I'll be in the oncology waiting room all month!

Houston, We Have A Message

In his 2014 book Neil Armstrong: A Life of Flight, author Jay Barbree recounts the following story:

That Christmas Eve in 1968 was extraordinary not just for Neil and Deke and the others in Mission Control, but for the billions that had been brought together before their television sets. They were seeing wondrous never-before-seen video of the moon moving quietly below Apollo 8's lunar orbit when Bill Anders spoke: "For all the people on Earth," he began soberly, "the crew of Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you."

He paused briefly and began reading from the verses of the book of Genesis: "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth..." As Bill concluded the fourth verse, Jim Lovell read the next four with Frank Borman concluding with, "And God called the dry land Earth, and the gathering together of the waters He called seas. And God saw that it was good."

The moon with its view of the distant, soft blue marble of life had become host to poets, and Borman signed off with, "And from the crew of Apollo 8, we close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God bless all of you -- all of you on the good Earth."

Slaughter of the Innocents

When 59 Children Died On Christmas Eve 1913, The World Cried With The Town Of Calumet, Michigan

By Curator: Brandon Weber

A little-known piece of history that Woody Guthrie documented in his haunting song, "1913 Massacre."

In July 1913, over 7,000 miners struck the C&H Copper Mining Company in Calumet, Michigan. It was largely the usual issues of people who worked for a big company during a time when capitalists ran roughshod over their workers — a time when monopolies were a way of life. Strikers’ demands included pay raises, an end to child labor, and safer conditions including an end to one-man drill operations, as well as support beams in the mines (which mine owners didn’t want because support beams were costly but miners killed in cave-ins “do not cost us anything.”)

Six months without work left many miner families with little food for the holidays and no money for presents, so the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Western Federation of Miners held a Christmas party for the kids. 500 children and 200 adults showed up that day, Christmas Eve 1913. It was held on the second floor of Calumet’s Italian Hall; the only way in and out was a very steep stairway.

As darkness fell and people began to go home to their family celebrations, some of the children gathered around the stage as presents were passed out — for many, it would be the only gift they’d receive this year. In the middle of this festive celebration, someone — possibly more than one person — opened the door at the bottom of the staircase and yelled, “FIRE!”

Chaos ensued. As everybody headed down the stairs to the exit, the door was blocked from the outside, and children and adults were trampled, then suffocated, by the throng of bodies trying to escape the “fire” — which didn’t actually exist.

In all, 73 people, including 59 children, died, most of them Finnish immigrants. The youngest was Rafael Lesar, 2.5 years old. The oldest was Kate Pitteri, 66 years old. Some families lost all of their children, like Frank and Josepa Klarich, who buried their three daughters, Kristina (11), Maria (9), and Katarina (7). Their little crosses are lined up in a row over their graves in a cemetery west of Calumet.

The culprits who yelled into the hall that day to start the tragedy were never identified, but it’s widely suspected that it was allies of mine management or the owners who did so to disrupt the miners’ party. Nobody was ever prosecuted or even arrested for causing the massacre. It is always thus: Those with money and power control the narrative, silence the truth, and thwart justice.

Italian Hall was demolished in the 1980s, but especially during the holiday season, the people of Calumet still talk of that night, 101 years ago, when so many innocents perished.

What's left of Italian Hall — the archway

Woody Guthrie, "1913 Massacre"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oz7oguguIZE

Festival of Lights

No matter how you spell it, have a safe, happy, healthy, and joyous Hanukkah, Hanukah, Hannukah, Hannukkah, Hanuka, Hanukka, Hannuka, Hannukka, Chanukah, Chanukkah, Channukkah, Channukah, Chanukka, Channuka, Chanuqa, Chanuka - and my personal favorite - Xanuka (brought to you by the same people who gave us Xmas).

Happy Christmas To All

Happy Saint Nicholas Day.

Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children was born on March 15th in the year 270, and died on December 6th, 343. How the deeply spiritual, austere Bishop of the early church transformed into the chimney shimmying, sleigh riding, North Pole residing, fat man of today is a long story bred mostly by the imaginations of American advertising illustrators.

Due to the many miracles attributed to Nicholas' intercession, he is also known as Nikolaus the Wonderworker. My wife and I so love the Christmas holiday, we named our first born child after the Saint, using this unique spelling.

Saint Nicholas had a reputation for secret gift-giving, such as putting coins in the shoes of those who left them out for him, a practice still celebrated in many European countries, and the forerunner of stockings hung with care from mantelpieces.

One legend tells how during a terrible famine, an evil butcher lured three little boys into his house, where he killed them, placing their remains in a barrel to cure, planning to sell them off as ham. Saint Nicholas, visiting the region to care for the hungry, not only saw through the butcher's horrific crime but also resurrected the three children from the barrel by his prayers. (Wikipedia)

Another legend relates the story of a poor man who had three daughters but could not afford a proper dowry for them. This meant that they would remain unmarried and probably, in absence of any other possible employment, would have to become prostitutes. Hearing of the girls' plight, Nicholas decided to help them, but being too modest to help the family in public (or to save them the humiliation of accepting charity), he went to the house under the cover of night and threw three purses (one for each daughter) filled with gold coins through the open window of the house. (Wikipedia)

Because of this tale, depictions of Saint Nicholas often showed him carrying three bags of gold, which later became three gold balls. For this reason, Saint Nicholas is also the patron saint of pawnbrokers.

Traditionally, Saint Nicholas Day is the official start of the Christmas season, and many people use this day to begin decking their halls.

So the next time you see a right jolly old elf with a pack of presents slung over his back, or hear a hearty "Ho Ho Ho," give a thought to the original gift-giver, Saint Nicholas.

GRIST

Water turns the wheel

grinding corn into meal,

which is taken by the wife

and baked into the staff of life.

All gather at the table,

as snow settles on the gable.

Father says a prayer to God,

ends Amen, gives a nod,

the warm, fragrant loaf is broken,

while many joyous words are spoken

by children with a happy sound,

for another year's come 'round.

Water turns the wheel

grinding corn into meal.

Franklin Creek State Park Grist Mill - Franklin Grove, Illinois

Don't Move

I've been waterboarded!

I was instructed to arrive at the Cancer Care Center yesterday morning, and I dutifully showed up ten minutes early. (I always show up for my appointments ten minutes early, but it never seems to shorten my wait times.) The oncology nurse directed me into a small room where I had to change into a hospital gown, no mean feat in a wheelchair. I was then brought into the CT scanning room and had to transfer onto a narrow plastic table. The nurse got me positioned and then she pulled my gown halfway down my arms, effectively pinning them at my sides.

"Don't move," she said.

The nurse explained that they would be making a mold of my head to hold me in place during the radiation treatments.

She told me to close my eyes and mouth. The next sensation I felt was a boiling hot, dripping wet, plastic mesh being pulled tightly over my face and ratcheted down to the table!

"Hannibal Lecter has nothing on me," I thought.

Fingers molded the web into my eye sockets and along the contours of my nose. "We're going to do a targeting scan," said the nurse. With the ubiquitous, "Don't move," I heard the door click shut behind her.

The table vibrated and began to move. The technology of modern medicine has a sound all its own. From the infamous beeping of hospital monitoring equipment, to the horrific bangs and magnetic buzzes of the MRI, to the electronic whirring of the radiological scanner. A soul-chilling thrum surrounded my head and the table slid forward, although I quickly lost all sense of direction.

After some indeterminable amount of time, the whirring slowed and the table stopped shaking. (Now I was the only thing shaking.) I became aware of someone by me. "You did great," said the nurse. "I'm going to walk down to radiology and make sure they look at the pictures right away. Will you be alright for a few minutes?"

"Umm maawaa humpf," I replied through my nose.

As she was leaving, she turned back and said, "You're doing great... Don't move."

By this time I was frowning without moving my lips and shaking my head without motion. I started laughing inside at the absurdity of the situation, how all the moments of my life and the millions of random events and possibilities, had led me to having my head pinned to a table, left alone with no one but myself for company.

After several minutes the nurse rushed in saying, "I'm so sorry, I just talked to the doctor and he told me you're claustrophobic." She quickly released the clamps and removed the hardened mask from my face. "I have a prescription for you for Xanax," she said.

"A day late and a dollar short," I thought.

I blinked and licked my dry lips. The nurse slowly got me into a sitting position and I transferred back into my wheelchair. After I got dressed (no mean feat) I asked the nurse if I was good to go. "Yep. You're all done for today," she said. "You did great. You didn't move."

Reading and Writing and 'rithmetic

The newest member of my library writers' circle is named Vivian. She is the only nonfiction writer in the group. She was part of a book project that chronicled the history of a rural Missouri county's one-room schoolhouses. The book included the reminiscences of the students and teachers who attended and taught there.

One excerpt from the book sums up the pragmatism of country life:

To begin the day, the teacher rang the five-minute bell. In warm months, it signaled students to get a quick drink of water, visit the outhouse, and gather belongings left under trees. On extremely cold days, students were already inside thawing out from their walk to school.

Teachers expected students to be on time; they kept attendance and tardy records.

"One day we were just about to school when the bell rang. We didn't want to be late so we just went home." Joanne Pope Pearce, Salisbury 1936-1944

Oak Grove School, Adair County, Missouri, circa 1940.

Billy Part 2

When I was in 3rd grade at Adlai E. Stevenson elementary school in Chicago, I had a friend named Billy Weeks. Billy was older. He was in 6th grade and he was a patrol boy. Every day as we walked to school, there would be Billy in his bright orange belt standing on his corner. I don't know where he got them all from, but each morning he would have a new joke for us. I don't remember most of them because most of them were not memorable. But just a few have stuck with me over the years. So as not to be lost in the mist of time, I want to tell you one of Billy's jokes.

WARNING: The following paragraph contains scatological humor age appropriate for a ten year old boy in 1967.

There's this guy who has never been with a woman before and decides to hire a prostitute. She comes to his place and asks, "So what do you like?" Not sure what to say he asks what she would like. The hooker responds, "How about some 69?" He says ok. So they're going at it, but she gets some bad gas pains. All of a sudden she lets one fly. It's strong enough to knock a buzzard off a shitwagon and the guy starts gagging and choking, but slowly gets back into the 69. Now she really lets one rip. The poor dude is ready to pass out. The women gets a little self conscience and asks, "What do you think of 69?" He says, "Its awesome, but I don't think I can take 67 more of those!"

Therefore, the National Bird of America Is Going To Be . . .

Writing from France on January 26, 1784 to his daughter Sally in Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin expressed his misgivings about the National Symbol of his new, beloved country. Please keep in mind that Franklin was referring to the wild turkey of his day and not the bloated, brain-dead, turkey of today.

For my own part I wish the Bald Eagle had not been chosen the Representative of our Country. He is a Bird of bad moral Character. He does not get his Living honestly. You may have seen him perched on some dead Tree near the River, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the Labour of the Fishing Hawk; and when that diligent Bird has at length taken a Fish, and is bearing it to his Nest for the Support of his Mate and young Ones, the Bald Eagle pursues him and takes it from him.

With all this Injustice, he is never in good Case but like those among Men who live by Sharping & Robbing he is generally poor and often very lousy. Besides he is a rank Coward: The little King Bird not bigger than a Sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the District. He is therefore by no means a proper Emblem for the brave and honest Cincinnati of America who have driven all the King birds from our Country.

For the Truth the Turkey is in Comparison a much more respectable Bird, and withal a true original Native of America... He is besides, though a little vain & silly, a Bird of Courage, and would not hesitate to attack a Grenadier of the British Guards who should presume to invade his Farm Yard with a red Coat on.

If Franklin had his way, as he did in much else, we would be serving eagle as the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving celebrations.

Mojo

When we were living in our apartment on Crab Apple Court in Naperville, and our boys were young and getting into trouble, our neighbor across the hall was a young, attractive Black woman with a boy about the same age as ours of her own. We were on friendly terms, and like all the kids on the block, her son was constantly in and out of our home. One day he walked into our apartment, plopped himself down on the loveseat, picked up the remote and started watching TV.

I looked at him and said, "Hey Jace, what's going on?"

He said, "Oh man, I broke my mom's vase and she's gonna kill me, so I gotta hide out here. You ain't gonna turn me in are you?"

What could I say? I listened for Rene to get home, slipped out the back door, and softly tapped on her door. When she answered, I said, "Hi Rene, I've got Jace over here. I think he broke something and he's afraid he's going to get it. You know we have a lot of holiday breakables, and it goes with the territory. What do you want me to do?"

She said, "I'll go around and knock on your front door and say I'm looking for Jace."

I went back in and busied myself in the kitchen, and a moment later there was a knock on my front door. Jace lowered himself down as I opened the door. Rene said, "I'm looking for Jace, has he been here? He's not in any trouble, but it's dinner time and I'm worried about him."

Jace sprung up and said, "I'm here ma."

"Hi honey," said Rene. "Thank Mr. Dunn."

"Thanks Mr. D," said Jace.

"See ya buddy," I said.

I told my wife about it when she got home and we pretty much forgot about it. A few weeks later, early on Thanksgiving morning, we were surprised by a knock on the door. We had the parade on and were drinking coffee, but we were still in our sleepwear. I looked out the fish hole and saw Rene standing there. I opened the door and Jace stood beside his mother.

"We brought you something for dessert," said Rene. "It's a sweet potato pie. We have it every Thanksgiving. The recipe's been handed down in my family for many generations."

I will not even attempt to describe how good it was. I subsequently asked for the recipe. Rene gladly gave it to me and I've tried to recreate the experience of that first bite. I've come close, but there's some subtle nuance that I've never been able to capture. Be that as it may, this is one helluva pie.

Steve's Southern Yankee Sweet Potato Pie

3 cups (4-5 large) sweet potatoes, roasted, peeled, and mashed
1/2 stick butter, melted
1/2 cup white sugar
1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/2 cup cream
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon ground allspice
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 Tablespoon bourbon
Refrigerated pie dough

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Place sweet potatoes in large mixing bowl. With electric hand-mixer on lowest setting, beat in melted butter. Mix in sugars. Add lightly beaten eggs, one at a time. Add cream. Add vanilla. Mix in spices and seasonings. Add whiskey. Mix. Pour into unbaked pie dough. Bake for fifty-five minutes, or until butterknife inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack. Serve at room temperature with whipped cream.

There's Nothing Stellar About "Interstellar"

Spoiler Alert: This review contains plot giveaways.

The movie "Interstellar" should have been called "Interstupor" because that's what the film put me in. The three hour project could have been cut in half without harm, the superfluous hour and a half, due to the preponderance of low-angle camera shots, spent mainly looking up Matthew McConaughey's nostrils.

McConaughey and co-star Anne Hathaway are no George Clooney and Sandra Bullock, and "Interstellar" is no "Gravity." The movie comes off like a wanna-be "2001: A Space Odyssey" for a new generation without ever hitting the mark. There is even a mobile AI with a sarcastic streak preprogrammed to a certain percentage of humor. I was not moved to tears as I was by Hal 9000, a much better actor.

The plot is set in a kind of post-apocalyptic landscape where dust storms are a way of life, and young people are forced to become farmers whether they want to or not because food production has replaced war as the country's top priority. McConaughey jacks a drone that just happens to be flying around guideless, then cannibalizes the parts for automated farm equipment.

In a totally unbelievable plot twist, some lines of sand on the floor of his daughter's bedroom leads McConaughey to a top-secret NASA installation and is instantly commandeered into piloting a one-way mission to Saturn and beyond.

Towards the end of this endless movie, Matt Damon gratuitously appears as a coldly calculating astronaut marooned on a barren planet and bent on murdering his rescue crew. Damon is not known for his emotive acting, and here he reaches his pinnacle in lifeless performances.

Much of the buzz surrounding the release has focused on the scientific conceptualizations of time-warps, multi-dimensions, spherical wormholes, and a giant black hole named Gargantuan. Coincidentally we had chicken with tarragon for dinner before we headed out, and I couldn't help thinking that Gargantuan Vs. Tarragon the Chicken from Outer Space, would have been a better movie.

Unfortunately, the movie was not shot in 3D because the director, Christopher Nolan, is not a fan of the format, I am a fan of the format, and 3D would have at least added some interest.

The hype also includes comments from such luminaries as Neil deGrasse Tyson who stated that the black hole special effects were the closest representation of an actual event horizon ever filmed, but when the movie eventually got to the climax, there was nothing I hadn't seen before.

I really tried to like this movie, but it just never sucked me in like light around a you know what. All in all, "Interstellar" was not worth the half a box of popcorn I left on the theater floor.

Turkey Day

Thanksgiving is three weeks from today. What are everyone's plans and menus?

We're totally breaking with tradition this year. We are serving roast turkey, stuffing, canned cranberry sauce, roasted root vegetables, and my famous sweet potato pie. We usually don't have turkey because it's an economical choice that we have throughout the year. In previous years we enjoyed moose roast (the juiciest, tenderest, and most delicious roast we've ever had); rabbit stew; venison meat loaf; a seafood buffet; duck (one of our perennial favorites); pumpkin soup and homemade bread; and pumpkin, onions and pork country ribs. This year we were actually thinking about doing a turkey chili and cornbread, but then I came up with the radical notion of opting for a classic American feast.

Much to the chagrin of my relatives and friends, we stay home for Thanksgiving. My wife loves being able to sleep in (she has to get up at 6:00 a.m. for work), we don't have to get out of our pajamas, we don't have to deal with traffic, and we can watch football all day long.

Norman Rockwell

Freedom From Want

Our Pez Prez

Recently, my sister posted that she was very excited to find Millard Fillmore Pez dispensers. As everyone knows, Millard Fillmore was our 13th president, and like our more illustrious 16th president, Fillmore was born in a log cabin and went on to establish himself in business, academia, and politics.

That being said, Fillmore consistently places in the bottom ten of historical rankings of US presidents. How then did Fillmore rise to the level of being honored with his own Pez dispenser? My brother and I must take full credit.

When Walt Disney World (yes, with my family, there is always a Disney connection) first opened in 1972, one of our favorite attractions was The Hall of Presidents. We noticed that during the roll call, people would clap for Washington, Lincoln, Kennedy, and even a smattering of applause for Nixon. In later years, to my disgust, this included Reagan and Bush! Correspondingly, the invariable gift shop that the theater exited into was full of merchandise bearing these famous and beloved presidents' likenesses.

But early on, when Fillmore's name was called, my brother and I would clap and cheer loudly much to the bafflement of the rest of the audience. We did this for several years, and lo and behold, when we walked through the souvenir shop, right next to the Father of our Country and the Illinois rail-splitter was the distinguished face of Millard Fillmore. Once we were able to stop laughing, I purchased a Millard Fillmore ashtray, which I still have to this day.

This exposure launched Fillmore's meteoric rise to fame, firmly placing him in the celestial lexicon of our most cherished and renowned statesmen.

You Want Fries With That?

Despite cold temps and brisk, gusty winds, we had 172 excited trick-or-treaters. Most had adapted their costumes to go over bulky winter clothing. Once again our outdoor display and giving out cans of pop were the hit of the town. The only odd occurrence was when a tiny child struggled up the front porch steps, a candy bag in one hand and a hotdog in the other.

I thought at first that the mother who accompanied her had given the girl dinner to eat as she trick-or-treated, but the mother said that someone down the block was giving out hotdogs as treats. These were full-size dogs in a bun WITH condiments! I though surely she was joking, but then when following groups of kids showed up also carrying and eating hotdogs, I was stunned.

My son thought this must be in response to our custom of giving out pop, but I wondered how in this day and age, parents would let their children have unwrapped food. My wife said that in a small town, with the permission of the parents who knew exactly where the homemade treats were coming from, made it alright.

Now I'm waiting for one of the houses between ours and the hotdog house to give out cole slaw next Halloween.

There Is No Spoon

Spoiler Alert: This review contains plot giveaways.

We went to see John Wick last night and I'm still baffled by one thing. Was the movie a cliche-riddled exercise in gratuitous violence, a stylized revitalization of the revenge genre, a clever parody of Keanu Reeves' screen persona, or a combination of all three?

First there's retired hitman for hire John Wick (Reeves) who got out of the business when he found true love, only to have his soulmate and savior die of a sudden brain aneurysm or something which is never fully explained. Still grieving from his loss, Wick is attacked in his home by the aluminum bat wielding son of a Russian mob boss, whom Wick once worked for. The thugs steal his beloved 1969 Mustang and kill the puppy that his wife left him in remembrance.

This fuels the revenge plot that makes up the bulk of the semi-graphic action that follows, as Wick dispatches dozens of bad guys with his trademark coup de grâce head shots.

Then there's the Russian kingpin himself (Michael Nyqvist) who instead of killing Wick outright when he has the chance, seems determined to talk him to death instead.

There is much humor in the movie, although again, I'm not sure if it's intentional or not, with several throwaway lines, and a classic scene where a young cop appears on Wick's doorstep after a shoot-out in his home responding to "noise complaints."

As it so happened, we had the entire theater to ourselves, so we did not hold back with our comments, laughs, and oh wows. Even though it was a Wednesday evening, this does not bode well for the future of the theater industry, but that's the topic for another discussion.

For my money, this shoot-em-up is definitely worth the price of a ticket and bucket of artificially-buttered popcorn. For pure high-octane, adrenalin-fueled action, John Wick is your huckleberry.

All Hallows Eve

By Stephen Dunn

"Hallowe'en will come, will come. Witchcraft will be set agoing.

Goblins will be at full speed, running in every pass.

Avoid the road, children, children."

~Old Scottish Proverb

Halloween is not just a day, it is a season to be savored and cherished. Our entire year revolves around the Eve of All Hallows. Football is in full swing,  sweaters are the rule of dress, the kids are back in school, and the crisp air reverberates with anticipation and the honks of geese. There is no way that the spirit of Halloween can be contained in a single day or all the fun packed into a single afternoon and evening.

Before the birth of Christ, the Celtic peoples of France and the British Isles celebrated the Festival of Samhain (SAH-win), the Lord of the Dead, on the last day of October. The Festival of Samhain also marked the Celtic New Year. The day of October 31st was spent honoring the Sun God, Baal, and rejoicing in the Harvest. 

The Celtic people ate nuts and apples to signify the bounty. But once evening closed in, the celebrating took a decidedly serious turn. Now the Celtic priests, the Druids, built great bonfires under the eaves of the oak trees that they worshiped. There, criminals and prisoners-of-war were used as human sacrifices and burned alive. The Druids believed that on this night the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead were most permeable. Thus the day was spent acknowledging the natural while the night was spent acknowledging the supernatural.

It was during the 7th Century that the Christian Church placed its mark on the pagan festival. Since the ancient beliefs could not be abolished, the Church overlaid a new set of beliefs by establishing November 1st as All Saints Day or All Hallows Day, and the night of October 31st became known as All Hallows Evening which was later shortened to Halloween.

Even with this new focus, the old traditions persevered, and many of the symbols we associate most closely with Halloween today have their roots in these customs. The colors of Halloween, orange and black, symbolize the Harvest festival and the Festival of the Dead respectively. In Scotland and Ireland the tradition survived of hollowing out beets and turnips and placing candles within for lanterns. This sprang from the ritual of ancient times when the Celtic people each took an ember from the sacrificial bonfire to light their way home. When the Scots and Irish came to America they brought this tradition with them but quickly seized upon the large, orange American pumpkin.

The Celts prepared lavish banquets to accompany the festivals of Baal and Samhain, but also set aside tables laden with food specifically for the Dead who might hunger in their journeys from one world to the next. The custom of setting aside food for wandering spirits persisted until it became the Trick or Treat of today. Lastly, the Celts believed that if a ghost recognized you, they could steal your soul. Therefore the Celts wore masks to disguise themselves and to blend in with the wandering spirits.

In this country, the Victorians seized upon Halloween as an excuse for decorating and entertaining as they did all else. Elaborate costume balls were given, parlor games were played and extravagant dinners served. Until the 1920s, Halloween was the province of adults, but about this time, younger people, not about to be left out of the fun, took to the playing of pranks and practical jokes. My father-in-law tells stories from his youth in the 1930s about outhouse tipping and reassembling one neighbor's car inside the house of another neighbor. The post-war years and the onset of the baby boom brought about the heyday of Halloween in America. American industry quickly got on the bandwagon and stores were filled with Halloween decorations and accessories. Today more money is spent on Halloween decorating and entertaining than any other holiday except Christmas. To coin a phrase, Halloween is to die for.

"Hail, old October, bright and chill,

First freed man from the summer sun.

Spice high the bowl, and drink your fill,

Thank Heaven at last, the summer's done."

~Thomas Constable

There are more things to do in October than you can shake a broomstick at. There is no way to do it all, but plan on doing as much as you can. We love watching football on Sundays, but Saturdays will invariably find us out of doors. Here briefly are some of the things we look forward to all season long.

Shop at farmers' markets for fresh, locally grown produce, beeswax candles, honey, preserves, flower arrangements and baked goods. In conjunction with farmers' markets, we have the luxury of being within an afternoon's driving distance of a working apple orchard. In addition to a variety of organically grown apples, the orchard store features melt-in-your-mouth cider doughnuts, taffy apples, gallon jugs of apple cider (you can watch the apple press in action, powered by an antique tractor), apple blossom honey from their own apiaries, and jars of apple pie filling ready to bake.

We have been attending Fall Festivals for over 30 years. Virtually all of our fall and Halloween collection has come from these local festivals. These events have afforded us the opportunity to explore our area's back roads and rural communities. The festivals often include craft shows, antique farm equipment, carnival attractions, parades, sports, and face painting. You are likely to find chili cook-offs, corn boils, pie eating contests, petting zoos, tractor pulls, and demonstrations of traditional crafts. Main Street businesses decorate their stores with scarecrows, corn stalks, pumpkins and other fall icons.

One of the ways we add to the festive Halloween spirit is with "Mr. Foot." Mr. Foot is a life-like human limb made out of molded rubber with a stuffed pant leg. We, of course, hang Mr. Foot out of the trunk of our car, much to the delight of all those who see us driving down the highway. We sometimes forget that Mr. Foot is there until we see other motorists honking, laughing, and pointing. And no, as of yet, we have never been stopped by the police.

On Halloween itself, my wife takes a vacation day so we can prepare for the afternoon and evening's festivities. Once school lets out, over two-hundred impossibly cute whirling dervishes appear on our doorstep. We arrange our stereo speakers so they can be heard outside. I play my own Halloween party mix, or put on one of the Universal monster movies and pipe it through the speakers. Our tradition is to give out cans of flavored pop, and we are officially known as the "Pop House." The next morning, it's hilarious to see the trail of empty cans up and down the block.

More often than not, we wind up inviting the children with their parents in to look at the decorations which they glimpse wide-eyed through the open doorway. I keep a pot of coffee brewing and bake a tray of pumpkin spice cookies, so that the aroma of fresh baked pumpkin permeates the air. With all these sights, sounds and smells of Halloween, our home is a popular stop on the neighborhood route.

"Gruesome ghouls and grisly ghosts, wretched souls and cursed hosts,

vampires bite and villains creep, demons scream and shadows sleep.

Blood runs cold in every man, fog rolls in and coffins slam,

mortals quake and full moon rise, creatures haunt and terrorize."

~Creature Features, WGN-TV Chicago

Those of us in the Chicago area, old enough to remember these chilling words, spoken over Henry Mancini's theme from Experiment in Terror, can still relish the anticipation they caused. Sitting in a darkened room, we knew we were about to be treated to one of the great Universal monster classics. For those of different ages and different locales, you have your own memories of local TV Friday and Saturday night horror fests. 

For us, those classic Frankenstein, Dracula and Wolfman movies still entertain, if not scare as they once did. The style and atmosphere hold up, and we eagerly look forward to seeing them again every Halloween. 

No Halloween would be complete without It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. This cartoon was Halloween in my childhood. In those days it was shown once a year and if you missed it, you and Linus had to wait until next year for the coming of the Great Pumpkin. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown also gave rise to one of the great mysteries of our time. Exactly how many times does Charlie Brown get a rock tossed into his trick or treat bag? My recollections were that this certainly occurred more than once. When I questioned family and friends about their recalling of the cartoon I received answers ranging from once or twice up to seven times. In truth, the correct answer is three times. 

Saving what we consider to be the best for last, we name John Carpenter's 1978 release, Halloween as the quintessential movie of the season. This granddaddy of slasher flicks gave rise to all the Freddies, Jasons and Michaels to come. We reserve our annual viewing of this Halloween treat for the evening of Halloween itself. After the trick or treaters have all gone home, the Halloween candles have burned low and the kids sit on the living room floor dividing their booty into piles of chocolate (for immediate consumption) and non-chocolate (to last through Christmas), this movie serves as our denouement to a season and an evening of magic and whimsy.

This recipe has been handed down in my family for hundreds of years. Some of the ingredients are difficult to find now. If you can't get fresh, frozen may be substituted.

"Fillet of a fenny snake, in the cauldron boil and bake;

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

Adders fork, and blind-worm's sting, lizard's leg and howlet's wing,

For a charm of powerful trouble, like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn and cauldron bubble."

Salt and pepper to taste.

Pumpkins are Halloween's most recognizable symbol. They are a truly American food product given us by the native inhabitants who welcomed us on these shores. The North American Indians sliced pumpkins into long pieces and roasted them over an open fire. Pumpkin, a member of the squash family, was a staple of the Colonists. New Englanders boiled or roasted pumpkins, cut them in chunks and ate them salted and buttered. Pumpkin was mashed and made into soup. The first pumpkin pie was, in fact, a custard baked in a pumpkin shell in hot ashes. Pumpkin was kneaded into bread dough, puddings and cakes, and finally the pumpkin pie we know today was created. The Colonists also brewed a pumpkin beer and today nouveau cuisine includes pumpkin filled ravioli, pumpkin-blackbean soup, pumpkin ice cream and pumpkin bisque.

The onslaught of trick or treaters and other Halloween evening activities precludes the cooking of full course meals. We suggest a craft beer and cheese party. Ye Olde Beverage Shoppe (aka your local liquor store) will offer at this time of year a wide variety of craft beers. Bock beers, wheat beers, honey beers, red beers, hop beers, and pumpkin beers fill the shelves. Accompany these with a selection of crackers. robust cheeses, and salamis. Snack throughout the evening.

We have developed a cookbook's worth of not-to-be-missed autumn recipes; everything from Hungarian Ghoul-ash to Cranapple Chutney. Some of our favorites include: Pumpkin Seeds, Pumpkin Soup, Pumpkin Pancakes, Pumpkin Milk Shakes, Colonial Pumpkin Custard, and Steve's Easy Pumpkin Cheesecake. We entreat you to share these recipes during this fleeting season of haunts and harvests with family and friends.

These recipes, along with more artwork, quotes, stories, projects, decorating tips, music suggestions and movie reviews can be found on the full Halloween blog at:

sjdgoingonrecord.blogspot.com/2013/10/halloween

It has been my pleasure to act as your guide through this heartfelt tour of Halloween at my home, and I leave you with this invocation of an old Cornish litany:

"From Ghoulies and Ghosties, And long-leggity Beasties,

And all things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord deliver us."

LABORIOUS

HUEY TWIRPGIRDLE POURED LABORIOUSLY over some obscure manuscript, a tome rendered into the Germanic from the original Latin, the author reputedly a Carthusian monk of a most holy countenance, although there was some question as to sanity.

Huey Twirpgirdle pushed back from his studies, the strange symbols and words of the frenzied calligrapher dancing before his eyes in Bacchanal waltz, orbs not so strained as in need of green tea. The Louis XVI chair scraped rawly across the floorboards, the screeching sound seemingly absorbed into the mouldering den. Huey Twirpgirdle looked about the library: the velvet curtains and cloth tapestries, the damp plushness of the tasseled pillows and cushions, the slightly rotting woodwork of cherry and walnut, the distressed and dusty furniture of ironwood and oak, rosewood and cedar, the wrought-iron girandole with adder-wax candles, the oddiments of ivory and jade and grotesquely carved hemlock, an ancient overstuffed loveseat, all somehow mauve and pansy-purple beyond the edge of conscious vision. He felt the tall bookcases and old volumes and hoarded parchments exude a cruel sensuality.

The temperature pitched. The candlelight flickered and went out. A vast tenebrous shape filled the room suddenly tomblike; fear flowed from it like the breath of a blind-date: dark, discordant, a matter for metaphysical discussion rather than lengthy debate in mere ectoplasmic theory. The lachrymose phantasm, dreary beyond the limits of human Faith, chilling the bone of reason and the marrow of imagination, malice glowing with evil emanation, moved towards Huey Twirpgirdle, embalming fluid pulsing through veins rapidly contracting inwards.

Nonetheless, knowing aforehand, as I did, being a fairly well-educated and traveled man, thus, as you may have wondered, being able to keep such an objective posture as I have struck, that the butler did it, I found myself at leisure to devote my entire thought, my entire concentration, if you will, to the incredible tale told to me by Mr. Twirpgirdle in a state never straying far from total derangement, indeed plunging dangerously, as it were, into that fascinating new realm of schizophrenia of which only the borders and great mountain ranges have been mapped, the valleys and vast interiors as yet uncharted and to my mind not to be deliberately sought out for motives of mere profit, but perhaps you shall yet judge for yourself.

History, if for no other reason, would merit interest in this case, I think, it having precedent and yet expanding the very frontiers of natural law. I will be blunt: Mr. Twirpgirdle was haunted. Or I should say, he had the worst case of manifestations I have ever witnessed, it being a hobby of mine, not quite to the same degree as picture-framing.

The cunning of the evil thing that visited Mr. Twirpgirdle, for I am convinced it was an actual evil entity unto itself, having no medium, disobeying all heretofore accepted tenets of parapsychology, what the less knowledgeable call the occult or even magic.

The night of October the 23rd was the sort of night one only reads about in books: wet, wild, woolly a rather robust acquaintance of mine from America would say; leaves skidding by on their journey down the road like so many lost souls; trees standing in naked dignity, watchful yet growing sleepy; the occasional stir and rustle of a foraging night-creature. Cloak draped closely about him, Huey Twirpgirdle staggered down the cobblestone street heedless of the puddles, feeling the effects of several pewter tankards of stout beer he had tossed off to lessen the chill of the evening.

Although the rain had stopped for a spell, the mist was thick, dampening and chilling also, and thunder rolled off in the distance. Huey Twirpgirdle hurried past the darkened doorways and alleys but a sudden blast of lightening illuminated all in stark clarity. For an instant Huey Twirpgirdle thought he saw, like some hellish kinetograph, as my American friend tells me a Mr. Edison is doing marvelous things with, a skeleton jumbled in a dishonourable ragheap up against the doorway of a particularly ill-kept smeltery. But upon shaking clear his head, Huey Twirpgirdle discovered it to be an old man, a huddled wretch in a ragged grey overcoat, discovered it to be no one more ill-boding than the village beggar who was kept on in pity and memory of what he once was and the service that he had rendered.

For this was old Doc Birney, Doctor Beechcombe Newgate Ashbury Whippleton Fenster Birney, M.D., D.C.S., D.D., LL.D., M.S., Ph.D., Th.D., whose research in entomology fused with the ethological practices and were the eventual cause of his downfall. Indeed, Dr. Birney boasted the finest dung beetle collection in the northern hemisphere. Derived from these pursuits was the nickname ignominiously bestowed upon him, and now he was referred to as Bugs Birney, and the bar-hags would cackle at the name.

Doc Birney spoke in a high, rasping voice, “Sir, could ye spare twenty quid for a broken man in need of an embracement of tea?”

“I would be only too glad to oblige my man,” said Huey Twirpgirdle, “but tea and cakes and a meat pie besides account to no more than three and a half quid in your nomenclature.”

“Aye, sir,” replied Bugs Birney with a nod and a wink, not yet totally bereft of his wits, “but I'm a big tipper!”

Huey Twirpgirdle continued on to his apartment, a modest affair of few rooms but well laid out and decorated comfortably. He had then his supper, consisting of beef broth and barley, a slab of strong cheese, and a dark loaf and butter, accompanied by a bottle of heady Burgundy. His dinner finished and cleared away, Huey Twirpgirdle smoking deeply by this time, the rorulence of the elements howling outside, stroked a sleek black cat that had come to sit on his lap and purr and preen, sentient green eyes sparking in the firelight.

Huey Twirpgirdle reflected on his evening's affairs. He had sat with Sir Henry Bascombe Heathrow Lamb, a cousin of the poet although they were estranged on philosophical grounds, over canapes and aperitifs off in a close corner between two potted palms. It was an occasion society thrusts upon us, and one cannot refuse, and after all the varied entertainments had been had left him feeling empty and pensive. But he had enjoyed his discourse with Sir Henry, an animated though largish man with a proficiency of auburn facial hair and four scars under his left eye, trophies of a leopard hunt, the taxidermed specimen on display at the Royal British Museum of Natural History in London. Indeed, they had spoken long of the seven spheres of man: the spirit, the mind, the soul, the life force, the astral body, the physical body, and desire.

Huey Twirpgirdle awoke at the first light of day, and the embers being still hot in the fireplace, he stoked up the coals and fried himself some eggs and rashers of bacon. He stood a pot of coffee on the hob. He lit some tobacco in his Meerschaum pipe with a punk from the hearth and settled comfortably into the inglenook.

When he had done, Huey Twirpgirdle quit his abode. Upon his return, he burst across the threshold, arms laden with packages and parcels of many shapes and sizes. He wore an outlandish costume – a black beret tilted at an odd angle on his newly barbered head, a grey artist's smock, pockets bristling with brushes, black hosiery, and robin's egg blue slippers. “I've been struck!” said Huey Twirpgirdle to the cat as he set down his bundles and bounded into the room.

The cat flicked its tail.

“Nay, I have not been to the opium house. I am not addled with the sweet ambrosia of the poets. Yet pulsing with the artist's sorrow I am, that perhaps drives them to excesses and the oblivion of intoxicants.”

And with that, Huey Twirpgirdle unpacked the strange acquisitions: palette, large wooden easel, art paper, drawing paper, stationeries of all description, sketchbooks, sketchpads, knives, spatulas, pencils, crayons, chalks and charcoals, paints, creams, oils, thinners, and also much clay for modeling, mallets, chisels, and hammers for the carving of wood and the sculpting of stone. An expansive drafting table and workbench were erected and he had also the tools of the engineer: T-squares, slide-rules, protractors and compasses. When these were laid out, he proceeded to dispose of the furniture to make room for the piano that was scheduled to arrive that afternoon.

The apartment was given over to the easels and work-tables, and the accumulating detritus of these devices. Clay models and roughly hewn carvings were scattered everywhere, some twisted and broken, some in exquisite detail. Manuscripts and notebooks and musical compositions littered the floor. The studio was stacked with canvasses and drawings, some framed, some painted over, some unfinished with pale colours as of a wraith-world. The works were primitive and hurried, yet fraught with menace.

Huey Twirpgirdle had not eaten, he had not slept, producing only, always creating, until the execution was become a hindrance to his ideas and visions. He sat at the piano in the dead of night, his fingers convulsing across the keys as if some electric current held him in a magnetic trance, a state such as that induced by the Austrian physician, Franz Mesmer, so that he could not pull away but each contact was a new experience in pain and terror, as a lamentation to an Inquisitor to hasten the end.

Huey Twirpgirdle poised over the drafting-board, sat suddenly upright and turned to the sunbathing cat. He let his head fall into his hands. “Did you know that in my friend Peter Roget's dictionary, the heading ART comes after MISREPRESENTATION?” Huey Twirpgirdle brought his fist down hard on the table. “I can do no more with these crippling implements of pen and brush. I must bypass the distractions of the third dimension. Time and space will yield their mastery as I pass into planes of consciousness where I shall become a divining rod for forces of imagination not even Keats or Byron hinted at. Ah, the poor mortal artist trapped in a cage of gold and knowing only in his deathrattle that there is no key.” The cat yawned. “I have an errand that will not wait,” said Huey Twirpgirdle.

The hooves of the bay hackney plodding funereally, Huey Twirpgirdle climbed a last steep slope and emerged from an evil wood animate with creeping mosses and brightly coloured fungi, zoetic with poisonous mushrooms and toadstools deadly to the touch. Gargoyles leered above him from the ramparts of a decadent castle. The crumbling citadels and broken parapets and cracked battlements wavered amid the sulfurous fumes and mists that seeped from the ground and rose up to occultate the moon, a magnetic axis in the full. Shrill yelps and guttural barking broke out about him, howlings and the plaintive wailings of lamias and werefolk. Furtive scufflings on the flaked stones and thorny undergrowth drew close. And in the darkening night, luminous points of ruby and emerald enmity sparkled from the penumbra of wood and shadow.

Two large portals were cut into the grey bricks on either side of the portcullis, and liverwort and scarlet pimpernel twined about the choking lattices. Two great doors of oak shod with iron, hung on iron hinges driven into the very rock. Huey Twirpgirdle struck the cast-iron knocker, in the shape of Marley's ghost, three times. The doors slowly swung inwards. He came into a wide foyer, torches sputtering in caged brackets casting wavering shadows on the faded flower print wallpaper. Two spiral staircases of worn stone without handrails led from the back of the greatroom to pillared loggias overlooking the central court. Huey Twirpgirdle could discern towerhouses at the four corners of the bastion, campaniles connected by low tunnels to the main structure, giving him the impression of being inside some nightmarish chesspiece.

Behind a counter sat a squat, corpulent teenager clothed in black leather. Neon purple hair spiked about her head in wild frizzes and knots. Her face was livid with suppurating blemishes. Her sallow cheeks sunk into a lipless slit of a mouth, and a fleshy growth appeared where a nose should have been, gaping hirsute nostrils adorned with piercings. Her face contorted into what can only be construed as a smile and Huey Twirpgirdle noted that the yellow teeth manifested by the effort were jagged and caked. Huey Twirpgirdle found her quite attractive.

Huey Twirpgirdle surveyed the racks of greeting cards and shelves of gift items that filled the space. “Welcome to Hellmark,” said the salesclerk.

After making his purchases and loaded with packages, the salesgirl asked Huey Twirpgirdle, "Can I help you out?"

"Thank you," said Huey Twirpgirdle. "My conveyance is parked right out front. I'm driving the Quasi-Moto."

Upon returning to his lodgement, Huey Twirpgirdle began to clear away the offal of his artistic dementia and righting the furniture that had been jumbled into corners. He sorted out the bags and parcels and set about bunches of Indian corn and a tabletop scarecrow. There were accordion centerpieces of black cats and witches, and cardboard cutouts of owls and haunted houses. He had there garlands of leaves for the table, and swags for the doors and windows. He set out crystal dishes of Mary Janes and orange and black wax paper wrapped candies. He lit black and blood orange candles. He brought out varnished gourds preserved from previous years and placed ceramic leaves and pumpkins about the space. A fresh custard pie sat cooling on a wire rack as hard apple cider warmed on the stove. He hung chains in the hallway like a curtain.

“You see,” said Huey Twirpgirdle to the cat who was busily batting a ball of tissue paper across the floor, “anyone can paint or compose or write, there is nothing to these. But to tastefully decorate, ah, there's the rub!”

But something was amiss. Amid all the festiveness, an angst gripped Huey Twirpgirdle. He settled back into an overstuffed wingchair and tugged his red velour smoking jacket closer about him. A handsomely bound volume embossed in gold, inscribed and autographed by E.A. Poe, lay across his lap. He read the words with his eyes but not with his mind, his mind's eye focused on the universe between the lines:

"Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch – as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? - from the covenant of peace, a simile of sorrow? But, as in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been."

Huey Twirpgirdle was aroused by an unaccountable horripilation on the back of his neck, the goosebumps raising the hair on his head. A stale, antiseptic odour permeated the room, the prophylactic smell of codeine tinctured the air. He felt the clamminess of the sick room, the sour despondency of the sanitarium, as an effluvium, the offensive exhalation of some doleful spirit. Huey Twirpgirdle slumped back into the chair, gripping the armrests with trembling hands. He sighed deeply, and stared into the flickering face of his jack o'lantern on the mantelpiece. It slowly came to him that there was purpose behind those eyes. Huey Twirpgirdle sank deeper into his ottoman. The antique grandfather clock struck midnight ushering in All Hallows Eve. Huey Twirpgirdle stuck his knuckles in his eyes, but imperceptibly the blessed realm of Morpheus offered him repose.

When he came to his senses, Huey Twirpgirdle found himself gagged, naked, and securely bound to a medieval cucking-stool. A short solid black man with a golden hoop through his right ear, bald shiny pate, teeth gleaming like ivory, full red lips, stood before him in nothing other than a loincloth, hands on his hips, a spectacular sapphire stone set in a silver band on the medius of his left hand. He braced himself on stout thick legs corded with muscle and let forth a great laughing and his whole body shook with joviality.

The ebony cavalier laughed again, but not at Huey Twirpgirdle, there was only friendship in that deep resonance. “I am Bendy, Ned Bendy, most just call me Old Ned. Let me tell you a story, nay better yet, a tale.

The voice was music, the words poetry.

“I studied under von Goethe and apprenticed under Herr Sigmund. I am the master of hypnosis and the pupil of hysteria. I have undertaken the analysis of dreams and the scholastics of trauma. I am the manipulator of psychic energies. I invade the spontaneous flow of thought and devour the infant. I revel in the defections of Adler and Jung. I am conqueror of religion and mythology. Art and literature are enslaved to me!”

Huey Twirpgirdle began to comprehend the depth of his guilt.

“Yes, we shall be good friends, you and I.”

This time the laughing was cruel, like the small wickedness of children. Huey Twirpgirdle swooned and the laughing ceased. Old Ned played only to an audience. In the quietus that followed, Huey Twirpgirdle heard his own heart beating.

“That too shall soon be mine,” said Old Ned once more peaceful and serene. “We need entertainment to lighten the mood,” and with a clap of his hands, a dark pool opened in the floor at Huey Twirpgirdle's feet. "This is the pool of Phobias. I can produce anything, since that's where the money is. Do you like rats?”

The pool suddenly became a deep vat roiling with Rattus Norvegicus, grey, coarse-haired hellspawn, spitting and screaking. The stool began to lean forward under its own motorium, teetering on the brink.

“Snakes? We have snakes.”

The vat churned with ophidian coldness, serpents coiling, hollow fangs dripping seductively. “Did you know that the history of the word venom can be traced back to the Latin?” said Old Ned. “Venenum it was – love potion.” Old Ned stood lost in some fair memory, but came back with a quick laugh. “Oh, but you don't like snakes? Pardon-moi.”

And with a wave of his arm, the pool gauzed over with cobwebs teeming with arachnidans. “Could you fall for me?”said Old Ned with a wry smile, cocking an eyebrow. Huey Twirpgirdle gripped the very edge of the stool with gluteal muscles he didn't even know he had. Old Ned slapped him on the back, quite jocularly, and Huey Twirpgirdle plunged into the abyss.

Huey Twirpgirdle braced himself for he knew not what horror or pain. For a breathless eternity he felt nothing except air rushing past him, and then something that crackled and crunched broke his fall. He opened his eyes to discover that he had landed in a great pile of russet and wine and marigold and maize leaves. He was on the outskirts of a vast forest of oak and he saw the emanation of a fire at some distance within the woods. At length, loosening his bonds, he crept close enough to peer out from behind the bole of an antiquitous beech. A bonfire exulted in the center of a wide clearing in the trees. The flicking tongues of crimson and cobalt jubilated in the refracting oculii of a noble assemblage.

A gaunt figure, taller than the rest, hoary and nimble-fingered hands uplifted to the uttermost moon, stood before a broad dolmen, an alter of stone. The frontal was carved with strange symbols: crosses, swastikas, and three-leafed trefoils. Two ancient timbers flanked the dolmen, august oaks arrayed in thick, green mistletoe leaves with luminescent pearl-like berries. The Archdruid (for these could be no other than the venerable sorcerers and wizards of the Isle of Man, the priests and prophets of the Celts, the Keltoi, the Lofty Ones) wore a great dark blue mantle, chevrons and spirals embroidered in gold and silver. A silver neckring, ornamented with patterns of ferns, the two open ends fashioned with the golden heads of owls, adorned his throat.

Aromatic smoke rose from incense cups on the altar, the cisterns enameled in bands of waterfowl in red and yellow and blue and green. The Archdruid, attended by his prophetesses as he celebrated this high sylvan ceremony, summoned the earth gods and woodland genii and heavenly deities which contested with Saman, the Nether Lord, who sought to raise the dead on this last day of the Celtic year. The necromancers recited the litany of the cosmos and chanted the magic invocations that revealed the hidden secrets of the animals of the forest, and the inviolable powers of the plants of the heath. All at once, the great Priest lifted up his voice and the murmurs of the others receded.

“He's making a direct appeal to the Druid deity, Muck-Olla,” said a hooded figure who had stood unnoticed just in front of Huey Twirpgirdle's hiding place."The head muckity-muck, you might say. My name is Hain,” he said sitting down on a tree stump next to Huey Twirpgirdle, “Sam Hain.”

The moon sank behind the trees. Now a gathering of men and women, and also many children, held convocation around the bonfire. The Priest took a chalice of ram's blood and raised up the cup whereupon the congregation cried out as one, “Master, help us!” All the congress came forth to receive their communion.

The diabolical mass concluded. but the Chthonian worship continued as the celebrants fell upon the banquet tables. The boards were laden with flesh, butter, bread, cheese, and drink. There was no salt.

“Salt, which figureth out wisdom and understanding, they eat not,” said Sam Hain. Huey Twirpgirdle shot him a look, but Sam Hain just shrugged and turned back to watch the merrymaking. All took their places and the feast commenced with much lascivious talk and idle dalliance until all were sated. Then the foul liquors began to have their effect and the women danced in a frenzied ring, back to back and in other absurd manner. Music was provided by some of the idolators, as viols and other instruments were brought thither by those that were skilled to play them.

“These witches must be stopped!” said Huey Twirpgirdle sickened by the utter humanity of the scene.

“WITCHES! WITCHES! Did you say WITCHES?” cried Sam Hain. “No wiccan in history ever acted like that. Only a witch would try to cast off suspicion by denouncing others. YOU must be a witch!”

“WITCH!” cursed Sam Hain.

“WITCH!” he spat.

All the revelry ceased. As one body they turned to stare at Huey Twirpgirdle who with a shock realized he was still naked.

“Thou shall not suffer a witch to live!” said Sam Hain.

Huey Twirpgirdle turned to face the oncoming mob and looked into the face of his own past. Schoolmates, teachers, relatives, neighbors, chance acquaintances. All the faces that haunted him, taunted him, in the late hours of the night. The beast with many heads came at Huey Twirpgirdle and took him.

“You are accused of crimen laesae majestatis Divinae, the crime of injury to Divine majesty,” said Sam Hain.

Huey Twirpgirdle was cruelly bound so that blood seeped from under his nails, his shaven head, a humiliating abrasion. He knelt before the multitude on a cushion of broken glass. They displayed before him all the devices of their cunning: the thumbscrews, toe clamps, and bone vises that would be used to cripple his limbs. They showed him the leg grip fitted with an iron bar that slowly pulverized the shin so that the marrow would be squeezed from the bone. They offered for his review the iron boots he would wear as molten lead was poured in. They submitted for his approval the whips and pincers and tongs that would soon tear his flesh from his soul. His hands were tied behind his back at the end of a long rope in a punishment from the 17th century called Strappado. The other end of the rope was thrown over a high treelimb by a kid he had lost a fight to in eighth grade. They tied weights to his ankles, and to Huey Twirpgirdle came the most wracking pain he had ever experienced, pain beyond imagining except by experience, as they hauled him up into the air.

The girl he had first loved made ready to release the rope so that Huey Twirpgirdle would be jerked to a halt inches above the ground, ripping his limbs from their sockets and breaking his body. Huey Twirpgirdle looked down past his legs at the pitiless reflections below him. Huey Twirpgirdle blinked through his tears, he shook his head to clear away the cobwebs of pain. On his feet were some sort of crystal slippers that sparkled in the light of the bonfire as if made of ruby. And even as he fell, he closed his eyes and tapped the heels together three times and said, “There's no place like home, there's no place like home . . .”

Huey Twirpgirdle found himself back in his own library, in his own worn chair. Numb with fear and exhaustion, a sharp metallic chiming came to him. With the last fiber that still connected will to sinew, Huey Twirpgirdle laboured to the front door. He grabbed the doorknob and with a last desperate effort wrenched it open. There on the welcome mat stood three small figures – a pirate, a princess, and a superhero.

“Trick or treat!” they said.