excerpt from Book III of The Black Ledge Series

“Please don’t tell me it’s a lamp,” Eleanor said. 
“No,” the Keeper smiled. “It’s the Scimitar of Salaman.” 
Rob and Jack both sat up straighter at the word scimitar. “What’s that?”
Floyd shuddered. “It’s dreadful. You’re gonna wish it was a lamp.”

The Keeper and the Scimitar of Salaman

Bent Arrow

     He stroked the arrow's shaft and contemplated the scene below. No one noticed him on the window ledge. There wasn't anyone. This place was ghost town, and the granite was getting cold. Damn cold.

     For the whole thing to come off properly two unsuspectings had to pass each other at just the right moment, but Stan hadn't mentioned this wasteland was uninhabited when he'd asked Al to cover his shift. Al's regular beat by the Starbucks in Sarasota was crawling with people, and it never occurred to him he'd be stuck here, freezing.  Did this place even even have high-speed? Al was sure it did not.  

     One disappointment after another. All morning. The last promising target had been the woman entering the bank. Al'd taken aim, ready to end it, and ... nothing. Not another soul in sight.

     He unwrapped another chocolate. Discarded red foil littered the pediment and Stan was nauseous, but the wrappers covered the pigeon droppings.

     Finally he spied two people. The woman leaving the boutique paused at the crosswalk to sip her latte and check her cell just as a man parked in front of the health food store. He climbed from car and walked to the sidewalk, but paused to smooth the peeling Free Tibet bumper sticker on the rusted Datsun.  Al smiled, a bit nastily, as he nocked the arrow.  

I was the luckiest of children. My grandfather was a farmer.

  

       

     I found the card above in a box of my Grandmother's mementos. Thrilled when I discovered this treasure, I knew I would share it.  It's old, and it's beautiful, and it's interesting.  I started putting my thoughts down this week, but realized immediately that writing about this treasure, and the man it belonged to, was no easy task.  This yellowed card, given almost 90 years ago to a boy, has impacted many.      

     I'd known my grandfather, Howard Waterman, belonged to 4-H in his youth.  I remembered the silver cups inscribed with his name on living room shelves.  He'd done some cool things with chickens. What he did was actually fascinating, and impressive, but growing up, my curiosity did not extend beyond cool things with chickens. I already knew how cool he was.  Cool across the cosmos.  He was that big in my world.  I'd followed him, imitating his limp-stretch stride since I could walk, and every moment in his company was magical.  

    When I grew older, I belonged to 4-H as well, mostly because of him (my parents are being unjustly overlooked here, but of course it was because of him).  Now my daughters are active in 4-H.  My grandfather would have enjoyed them so.  He would have especially enjoyed attending their shows, as he did mine.  He never missed one. He knew everyone ringside, and they, him.  I remember waiting for him, a bit impatiently, to make his way to me, even at Eastern States Expo, which was a few hours from our home.  Surely he didn't know everyone there, too.  But he did.

     Reflecting, now, I know being active in 4-H gave him skills and experiences he utilized his entire life, personally and professionally.  Public speaking, presentation, 4-H project records, and competitions at county, state, and national levels provided personal growth opportunities which taught him skills. Farming taught him critical thinking, compassion, and common sense.  Forging friendships enriched his person.  The stories are many, and marvelous.  They all come back to who he was, and how he was impacted by the card, above.     

     Over the course of his life several newspaper articles were written about him, his professional accomplishments, and distinguished career in Law Enforcement. My grandfather was not formally educated beyond high school. He became the Chief of Police in a small New England town. What that meant, in the middle of the twentieth century in a rural American town, was that anytime anyone needed help, they called him.  The police car was the town's ambulance, housed fire equipment, animal control and emergency veterinary supplies, and evidence, as needed. He even prosecuted his own cases at the county level. He was an independent thinker, and his opinions were valued and sought for town and county committees, from public health to land use practices.  He was active in service organizations.  I cannot begin to remember how many times, when I was with him, someone began a sentence with, "Did you know your Grandfather ...".  And while well-respected, he was also very well-liked, and when he prepared to retire the town held a special town meeting, and voted, with the largest attendance ever, to honor him with Life Tenure as Police Chief.  

     The newspaper articles cited his professional accomplishments, but failed to convey the man his friends, family, and colleagues knew.  My grandfather's physical presence was impressive. He was a tall, strong, handsome man with a quick,charming smile. He exuded a trustworthiness and decency to which people, and animals responded.  His insight, often crinkling the corners of his green eyes, assessed without judgment. He inspired those around him to meet expectations by his confidence in their ability to do so.  While respecting the law, he also recognized when the law failed to address/resolve a situation adequately, and used his common sense.  He owned these decisions comfortably. His easy manner remained unflappable, even in confrontational, or dangerous situations.  He approached a difficult personality with the same gentle, firm manner he approached an unruly Angus bull.  Both behaved.  

     He was a farmer.  He enjoyed his career, but his career supported the life he chose to live.   His day ended with him returning home, to his farm, and his family. He raised replacement dairy heifers, beef cattle, chickens, and pigs, and two strong boys.  He had large vegetable gardens, and cut his own hay.  Farming shaped who he was.  I knew that, but it wasn't until I found the card above in my grandmother's mementos that I stopped to consider how farming, and his involvement in 4-H, defined who he really was. Many youth found worth and satisfaction haying with him, or at least were too tired that night to cause mischief.  Someone once commented that many of the town's most upstanding citizens had had their ear tweaked by him in their wilder days.  What many call Human Relations was his intrinsic respect for the least among us.  His concern about a failing calf and a struggling family were the same. He dropped off fresh vegetables as if the family were doing him a favor by taking them. To him, they were.  A woman at his funeral wanted me to know about the birth of her firstborn. Her husband was away when she went into labor early, alone. He delivered the baby, took her and the baby to the hospital, and stayed with her until her husband arrived.  She gripped my arm while she told me, that she knew, when he came through the door, everything would be okay.  And it was.  

       He could have done anything in life, professionally.  Farming, and 4-H, prepared him for that.  He could have pursued a career in science, business, or even philosophy. He chose to enjoy them all, farming.   

       Howard Waterman's life will never be the subject of a documentary, but his life was a life well-lived, in a simpler time.  He loved his family, and his community.  Like the radio that magically came on with the lights in his barn, every place he was a nicer place because he was there.  The boy who grew to be that man was active in 4-H.  He honored the pledge he made in his youth.  He never stopped using his head, his heart, his health, and his hands.  It impacted his club, his community, and his country.  In his unique and very special way. 

    

Pux This

     I'm not a morning person.
     Imagine being jarred from a deep sleep. No snooze button to ease one's journey, suffering, through the layers of consciousness. Ripped by the scruff of the neck from your warm bed, with no warning, and held aloft in front of thousands of eager faces. In the cold.
    Imagine it. For a moment. It's not okay.
    So there I was. Held by a stiff in a silly hat with fools studying the ground for evidence of sun (now maybe something has changed since I went to sleep, but last I checked the sun was in the sky). In a place called Gobbler's Knob.
    Gobbler's Knob. Really?
    Shouldn't we have Gobbler out here, then? Looking for his knob's shad--maybe not. Never mind.
    I don't understand how even I got dragged into this. It was originally called Candlemas Day. Happy Candlemas Day. Sounds Lovely. Who made the leap to Ground Hog day? Go on, follow that bouncing ball.
    Six more weeks. Happy? May I go back to bed now?

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Mystique of the Templar

            What is the fascination with an order of knights long dead?  I first saw the co-option of the name Knights Templar last August with the horrendous shooting in Norway.  It piqued my curiosity, but the crime was so horrific I never delved deeper. 
            I saw it again this week, directly referencing the Mexican drug cartel.  It got me thinking again so I asked my friend, Vernon.
            Vernon, you see, is quite suited to answer questions about the Templars.  His book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, is a page-turner featuring a Templar Knight.
            Vern is a wicked story teller, so why would I look this stuff up when I can just ask him to tell me (us) the history of the Templars? On Friday the 13th, no less.  A wonderful day for mystique, and Templar superstition.

Thanks, Paige, for inviting me to talk with you about the Templars. Let me preface this by saying I am by no means a Templar historian or expert. I’ve done a lot of research on the order but I would not begin to hold myself up as some sort of authority. That said, I think there are some interesting, fun, and ultimately intriguing things to discuss.                                                                                        
                                                                                                                                                         Who were the Knights Templar?
              The Templars were a military order officially recognized by the Catholic Church. They were formed in the early 1100’s and existed  for almost two hundred years before being officially disbanded in 1312. It’s important to note that at their peak there were perhaps 20,000 Templars, of which only a small percentage were actual soldiers. In reality it was their financial acumen and their vast wealth that I believe to be their most important and far–reaching legacy. They literally changed, and in many ways formed, the basis of modern banking. Their architectural achievements were extraordinary; many of their buildings, temples, and castles still stand today.                                                                                                                                             

                                                                                                                                                  Who were the first Templars? 
             They were a group of nine European Knights, all but one of which has been identified by name (I've got my literary hooks in that unnamed knight). They were all related in some way and for reasons unknown found their way to the holy land after the first crusade. During this time pilgrims were being slaughtered by Muslim bandits and they offered themselves up as protectors of the pilgrims and of the holy land.
              The King of Jerusalem took them up on their offer and gave them lodgings on the spot where Muslims had built the Al Aqsa mosque, the original site of Solomon's temple. Eventually they were officially endorsed by the church.

What was it like to be a Knight Templar?

Well again, that varied depending on whether a Knight was a soldier or part of the larger group that was really a sort of multi-national corporation. If we focus on the fighting men I think it is safe to say it was a militaristic organization with very intense and rigorous standards requiring a monastic mindset and adherence to Templar rules. No women, a vow of poverty, etc. They truly were the elite military force of their day and this required constant training, strict discipline, and uncommon bravery. These were amazing fighters, and when one stops to contemplate the brutal reality of medieval warfare they must have possessed phenomenal strength and endurance. I think that’s a big reason why some modern characters, including some serious bad guys, have tried to co-opt the Templar mystique.

Why were they so secretive?   
            That is obviously one of the reasons they have continued to fascinate so many people since the time they were disbanded and ceased to officially exist. There is no shortage of theories as to why they maintained such a secretive profile. Starting with their very beginnings, were they really interested in the stated goal of protecting pilgrims on their way to the holy land and protecting the holy land itself, or was there another motive? Why did they take up residence on the original site of Solomon’s Temple? Were they in possession of Christian Relics or esoteric knowledge? It’s irresistible fodder for speculation and imaginative minds. Like mine.

What has been the most interesting thing you’ve discovered about The Templars as a result of your research for your books?

            I think I’m most impressed with their ability to quickly rise to such prominence and power. They were a force financially, equal and in many ways superior to the Kings of their time. I also have been impressed with the strength of commitment to their order. They truly would and did sacrifice themselves for their ideals, be it The Holy Land, God, the Order itself. In the end many of them were massacred for refusing to denounce the Order. Again, this seems to have a certain attraction to the various groups, good and bad, who adopt the Templar moniker.

What authors do you enjoy who have used the Templars in their work?

Obviously Dan Brown comes to mind. There’s Steve Berry, Raymond Khoury and my friend, David Beem. There are several books I’ve come across recently dealing with Templars I want to read. It’s funny in that the Templars have been fodder for literary plots from their very beginning, for instance the various Grail legends that have existed for centuries featuring Templars, or Templar-like themes.

In your book, Slow Boat to Purgatory, Gaspar de Rouse, your main character, is a Templar Knight. Why did you make him a Templar?

 I wanted Gaspar to be a man of extraordinary commitment and heroism. I wanted him to have a certain inner-strength in order to stand up to the trials and tribulations I was going to throw at him. The Templar ethos fit that mold for me. I also wanted him to have to confront his failings when it came to some of the things he had done as a Templar. He didn’t always choose wisely, during his time as a Templar, and that comes back to haunt him. I also wanted to write about something I enjoy.

In Slow Boat you have a couple of other main characters, one of them a priest, and (without a spoiler) he has connections to the Templars and a modern day soldier, a Navy Seal. Why did you choose a priest and a navy seal?
          Well as far as Dominicus, the priest, I saw him having similar conflicts to those Gaspar has. He’s a priest, but he does things that a priest doesn’t usually have to do, or should do. Yet he is every bit committed to his cause as Gaspar is to his. As far as Alex Donovan, the Navy Seal, I wanted him to be a warrior of extraordinary abilities and strength, like Gaspar. He’s American, so the toughest American soldiers I could come up with were the seals. If he had been British he would have been a member of the S.A.S.

       
Thanks so much for sharing all of this fascinating information. It is easy to see why you were drawn to conjure such a thrilling tale. And, you did it justice.  Thanks, V.  

Find Slow Boat to Purgatory on Amazon

Cheers

     The New Year's Resolution. Why?
     Don't let the confetti distract you. It's a subversive plot.
     Oh, yes. Yes, it is. Have a seat.
     Once upon a time, in a land far, far away there were two agents of Misery. Stress and Strife were their names, and they were very good at their jobs. Times were simpler. They broke the flint knives of hunters/gatherers, back-drafted hearth fires filling caves with smoke, and propagated mildew on food stores, but it was a simpler time and they were not overworked. They enjoyed a comfortable run for a long time.
     Our world grew and evolved though, and Stress and Strife had to organize and recruit assistance (or give up earned vacation time). They formed a networking effort of global proportions and employed covert agents everywhere. The agents headed their own departments and were charged with specific tasks. One agent, for example, oversaw havoc in the medical field and everything pertaining to it. This encompassed everything from lowering the accepted age of colonoscopies to flossing to HDL/LDL imbalance. Another was charged with retailing, and instructed underlings to periodically and without warning alter measurements of clothing industry size standards. Yet another was responsible for the financial world and their subordinates hid fees and bounced checks.
     The departments worked like a well-oiled machine to year-end culmination of widespread unhappiness, hypertension, and insomnia. December. The most glorious time of the year for Stress and Strife.
     But.
     It all ended, every year, at midnight on Christmas Day. Christmas night demarcates the DMZ (de-miseried zone), and Stress and Strife's archenemies, Peace and Relaxation, take over. The entire week between Christmas and New Year's Eve belongs to them, and Stress and Strife must watch from the sidelines. Unconcerned About Anything has been a strong ally, assisting Peace and Relaxation to hold the enemy at bay. Year after year, decade after decade.
     As you can well imagine this week had long been a thorn in Stress and Strife's side. They sought to reclaim this lost territory, and the subject came up often. Emergency meetings were frequent with only the one item on the agenda (which was good, because Robert hated Stress and Strife and forbid them to use his rules).
     And so sat the department heads around the conference table at one such meeting. They mulled the same old ideas, such as the December 26th sales which had been implemented a few years back but never managed to pack the wallop Black Friday did.
     They puzzled and discussed, but a solution continued to elude them. Just as the consensus was reached again they'd have to accept defeat this one week a year Anxiety had a brilliant idea.
     "What if," she, proposed,thinking aloud, "what if, somehow, we got people worrying about things that hadn't even gone wrong yet?"
     "What do you mean?" asked Suspicion and Skepticism simultaneously.
     "Well .. we can't make them participate in the misery of life this week, but maybe we can get them worrying about next week. .. make people think about it, and by just thinking about it, in fact, screw up their week .....yes! Yes! With the right marketing we can even get them to look forward to it! Plan to participate in said misery!" Anxiety was so excited she could hardly get the idea out.
     Well, everyone around the table was speechless (in fact, Rumor has it Anxiety got a big promotion that day).
     Obsessed was quick to see where Anxiety was headed and began making lists.
     Fret had logistical concerns. A lot.
     Clutter saw the marketing opportunities; noisemakers, champagne, dumb hats, balls and pennies dropping all at the same time.
     Resolve jumped in and asked, "Yeah, but how do we get them to do it?"
     "That's your department!" snapped Lazy.
     And the New Year's Resolution was born.









original post 12-31-2010

The Trappings of Christmas

   
     Joey, Stevie, and Marvin, the littlest Melton, crowded around the table in the shed, their grubby faces intent upon the metal trap they'd modified, the Little Nipper IV.

     The shed door, askew on one rusted hinge, let little light into the dank hovel they called a clubhouse. The missing glass in the blacked-out window, even less.  They squinted at the contraption, which made them look even meaner than they were. If that was possible. 
     "This ain't gonna work," Stevie said.
     Joey poked at the trap door of the bent wire cage, testing its action. "Sure it will.  We'll set it on its end, put it in the hole, and cover it with leaves. Then, we'll set the bait on top, see?  When she lands, the trap door will give way and she'll fall right in.  The door'll snap shut before she even knows what happened. Slicker'n snot."   
     The spring snapped and the door pinched his finger.  He let loose a string of expletives.  The other boys dared not grin.  He'd have cuffed 'em.  Marvin, the littlest Melton, unconsciously rubbed his ear.
     "C'mon," Joey picked up the trap and his brothers followed him out of the shed.  "Marv, go filch honey from the house, and sumthin' to put it in.  Sumthin little, like a  bottle cap."
     Marvin, the littlest Melton, moved quick to do his brother's bidding, lest Joey cuff 'im.  He unconsciously rubbed his ear.
     Joey lugged the makeshift trap to a sad group of trees in the overgrown empty lot next door.  He set it into the hole they'd dug the day before.  Thankfully, it fit, otherwise Joey might have pitched a fit.  Had Marvin been there he would have unconsciously rubbed his ear.  Joey set the door of the trap and placed loose brush, just so, over the top, careful to leave the door clear.  Stevie gathered leaves and twigs.
     When he finished arranging the brush to camouflage the trap, Joey looked around.  "Where the hell is Marvin?"
     "Right here.  I have the honey. I'm just trying to figure out the puzzle," he said, holding up a Haffenreffer bottle cap with a riddle printed inside.
     "Gimme that." Joey grabbed the cap and the honey and cuffed his brother on the ear.  He set the cap, gingerly, on the trap door and poured a small amount into it. When he was done, he stood and stepped back with his brothers.  
     They admired their handiwork.
     Joey spat, satisfied, and said with a mean grin, "Now we wait."  
     Marvin frowned, and unconsciously rubbed his ear.

(to be continued)

    

Cataclysmic 

 Catastrophic 

Nackles

Nackles

By Donald Westlake (writing as Curt Clark)

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1964

Did God create men, or does Man create gods? I don’t know, and if it hadn’t been for my rotten brother-in-law, the question would never have come up. My late brother-in-law? Nackles knows.

It all depends, you see, like the chicken and the egg, on which came first. Did God exist before Man first thought of Him, or didn’t He? If not, if Man creates his gods, then it follows that Man must create the devils, too.

Nearly every god, you know, has his corresponding devil. Good and Evil. The polytheistic ancients, prolific in the creation (?) of gods and goddesses, always worked up nearly enough Evil ones to cancel out the Good, but not quite. The Greeks, those incredible supermen, combined Good and Evil in each of their gods. In Zoroaster, Ahura Mazda, being Good, is ranged forever against the Evil one, Ahriman. And we ourselves know God and Satan.

But of course it’s entirely possible I have nothing to worry about. It all depends on whether Santa is or is not a god. He certainly seems like a god. Consider: He is omniscient; he knows every action of every child, for good or evil. At least on Christmas Eve he is omnipresent, everywhere at once. He administers justice tempered with mercy. He is superhuman, or at least non-human, though conceived of as having a human shape. He is aided by a corps of assistants who do not have completely human shapes. He rewards Good and punishes Evil, And, most important, he is believed in utterly be several million people, most of them under the age of ten. Is there any qualification of godhood that Santa Claus does not possess?

And even the non-believers give him lip-service. He has surely taken over Christmas; his effigy is everywhere, but where are the manger and the Christ child? Retired rather forlornly to the nave. (Santa’s power is growing, too. Slowly but surely he is usurping Chanukah as well.)

Santa Claus is a god. He’s no less a god that Ahura Mazda, or Odin, or Zeus. Think of the white beard, the chariot pulled through the air by a breed of animal which doesn’t ordinarily fly, the prayers (requests for gifts) which are annually mailed to him and which so baffle the Post Office, the specially garbed priests in all the department stores. And don’t gods reflect their creators’ (?) society? The Greeks had a huntress goddess, and gods of agriculture and war and love. What else would we have but a god of giving, of merchandising, and of consumption? Secondary gods of earlier times have been stout, but surely Santa Claus is the first fat primary god.

And wherever there’s a god mustn’t there sooner or later be a devil?

Which brings me back to my brother-in-law, who’s to blame for whatever happens now. My brother-in-law Frank is—or was—a very mean and nasty man. Why I ever let him marry my sister I’ll never know. Why Susiewanted to marry him is an even greater mystery. I could just shrug and say Love Is Blind, I suppose, but that wouldn’t explain how she fell in love with him in the first place.

Frank is—Frank was—I just don’t know which tense to use. The present, hopefully. Frank is a very handsome man in his way, big and brawny, full of vitality. A football player; hero in college and defensive linebacker for three years in pro ball, till he did some sort of irreparable damage to his left knee, which gave him a limp and forced him to find some other way to make a living.

Ex-football players tend to become insurance salesmen, I don’t know why. Frank followed the form, and became an insurance salesman. Because Susie was then a secretary for the same company, they soon became acquainted.

Was Susie dazzled by the ex-hero, so big and handsome? She’s never been the type to dazzle easily, but we can never fully know what goes on in the mind of another human being. For whatever reason, she decided she was in love with him.

So they were married, and five weeks later he gave her her first black eye. And the last, though it mightn’t have been, since Susie tried to keep me from finding out. I was to go over for dinner that night, but at eleven in the morning she called the auto showroom where I work, to tell me she had a headache and we’d have to postpone the dinner. But she sounded so upset that I knew immediately something was wrong, so I took a demonstration car and drove over, and when she opened the front door there was the shiner.

I got the story out of her in fits and starts. Frank, it seemed, had a terrible temper. She wanted to excuse him because he was forced to be an insurance salesman when he really wanted to be out there on the gridiron again, but I want to be President and I’m an automobile salesman and I don’t go around giving women black eyes. So I decided it was up to me to let Frank know he wasn’t going to vent his pique on my sister any more.

Unfortunately, I am five feet seven inches tall and weigh one hundred thirty-four pounds, with the Sunday Times under my arm. Were I just to give Frank a piece of my mind, he’d surely give me a black eye to go with my sister’s. Therefore, that afternoon I bought a regulation baseball bat, and carried it with me when I went to see Frank that night.

He opened the door himself and snarled, “What do you want?”

In answer, I poked him with the end of the bat, just above the belt, to knock the wind out of him. Then, having unethically gained the upper hand, I clouted him five or six times more, then stood over him to say, “The next time you hit my sister I won’t let you off so easy.” After which I took Susie over to my place for dinner.

And after which I was Frank’s best friend.

People like that are so impossible to understand. Until the baseball bat episode, Frank had nothing for me but undisguised contempt. But once I’d knocked the stuffing out of him, he was my comrade for life. And I’m sure it was sincere; he would have given me the shirt off his back, had I wanted it, which I didn’t.

(Also, by the way, he never hit Susie again. He still had the bad temper, but he took it out in throwing furniture out windows or punching dents in walls or going downtown to start a brawl in some bar. I offered to train him out of maltreating the house and furniture as I had trained him out of maltreating his wife, but Susie said no, that Frank had to let off steam and it would be worse if he was forced to bottle it all up inside him, so the baseball bat remained in retirement.)

Then came the children, three of them in as many years. Frank Junior came first, then Linda Joyce, and finally Stewart. Susie had held the forlorn hope that fatherhood would settle Frank to some extent, but quite the reverse was true. Shrieking babies, smelly diapers, disrupted sleep, and distracted wives are trials and tribulations to any man, but to Frank they were—like everything else in his life—the last straw.

He became, in a word, worse. Susie restrained him I don’t know how often from doing some severe damage to a squalling infant, and as the children grew toward the age of reason Frank’s expressed attitude toward them was that their best move would be to find a way to become invisible. The children, of course, didn’t like him very much, but then who did?

Last Christmas was when it started. Junior was six then, and Linda Joyce five, and Stewart four, so all were old enough to have heard of Santa Claus and still young enough to believe in him. Along around October, when the Christmas season was beginning, Frank began to use Santa Claus’ displeasure as a weapon to keep the children “in line,” his phrase for keeping them mute and immobile and terrified. Many parents, of course, try to enforce obedience the same way: “If you’re bad, Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents.” Which, all things considered, is a negative and passive sort of punishment, wishy-washy in comparison with fire and brimstone and such. In the old days, Santa Claus would treat bad children more scornfully, leaving a lump of coal in their stockings in lieu of presents, but I suppose the Depression helped to change that. There are times and situations when a lump of coal is nothing to sneer at.

In any case, an absence of presents was too weak a punishment for Frank’s purposes, so last Christmastime he invented Nackles.

Who is Nackles? Nackles is to Santa Claus what Satan is to God, what Ahriman is to Ahura Mazda, what the North Wind is to the South Wind. Nackles is the new Evil.

I think Frank really enjoyed creating Nackles; he gave so much thought to the details of him. According to Frank, and as I remember it, this is Nackles: Very very tall and very very thin. Dressed all in black, with a gaunt gray face and deep black eyes. He travels through an intricate series of tunnels under the earth, in a black chariot on rails, pulled by an octet of dead-white goats.

And what does Nackles do? Nackles lives on the flesh of little boys and girls. (This is what Frank was telling his children; can you believe it?) Nackles roams back and forth under the earth, in his dark tunnels darker than subway tunnels, pulled by the eight dead-white goats, and he searches for little boys and girls to stuff into his big black sack and carry away and eat. But Santa Claus won’t let him have the good boys and girls. Santa Claus is stronger than Nackles, and keeps a protective shield around little children, so Nackles can’t get at them.

But when little children are bad, it hurts Santa Claus, and weakens the shield Santa Claus has placed around them, and if they keep on being bad pretty soon there’s no shield left at all, and on Christmas Eve instead of Santa Claus coming out of the sky with his bag of presents Nackles comes up out of the ground with his bag of emptiness, and stuffs the bad children in, and whisks them away to his dark tunnels and the eight dead-white goats.

Frank was proud of his invention, actually proud of it. He not only used Nackles to threaten his children every time they had the temerity to come within range of his vision, he also spread the story around to others. He told me, and his neighbors, and people in bars, and people he went to see in his job as an insurance salesman. I don’t know how many people he told about Nackles, though I would guess it was well over a hundred. And there’s more than one Frank in this world; he told me from time to time of a client or neighbor or bar-crony who had heard the story of Nackles and then said, “By God, that’s great. That’s what I’ve been needing, to keepmy brats in line.”

Thus Nackles was created, and thus Nackles was promulgated. And would any of the unfortunate children thus introduced to Nackles believe in this Evil Being any less than they believed in Santa Claus? Of course not.

This all happened, as I say, last Christmastime. Frank invented Nackles, used him to further intimidate the children and spread the story of him to everyone he met. On Christmas Day last year I’m sure there was more than one child who was relieved and somewhat surprised to awaken the same as usual, in his own trundle bed, and to find the presents downstairs beneath the tree, proving that Nackles had been kept away yet another year.

Nackles lay dormant, so far as Frank was concerned, from December 25th of last year until this October. Then, with the sights and sounds of Christmas again in the land, back came Nackles, as fresh and vicious as ever. “Don’t expect me to stop him!” Frank would shout. “When he comes up out of the ground the night before Christmas to carry you away in his bag, don’t expect any help from me!”

It was worse this year than last. Frank wasn’t doing as well financially as he’d expected, and then early in November Susie discovered she was pregnant again, and what with one thing and another Frank was headed for a real peak of ill-temper. He screamed at the children constantly, and the name of Nackles was never far from his tongue.

Susie did what she could to counteract Frank’s bad influence, but he wouldn’t let her do much. All through November and December he was home more and more of the time, because the Christmas season is the wrong time to sell insurance anyway and also because he was hating the job more every day and thus giving it less of his time. The more he hated the job, the worse his temper became, and the more he drank, and the worse his limp got, and the louder were his shouts, and the more violent his references to Nackles. It just built and built and built, and reached its crescendo on Christmas Eve, when some small or imagined infraction of one of the children—Stewart, I think—resulted in Frank’s pulling all the Christmas presents from all the closets and stowing them all in the car to be taken back to the stores, because this Christmas for sure it wouldn’t be Santa Claus who would be visiting this house, it would be Nackles.

By the time Susie got the children to bed, everyone in the house was a nervous wreck. The children were too frightened to sleep, and Susie herself was too unnerved to be of much help in soothing them. Frank, who had taken to drinking at home lately, had locked himself in the bedroom with a bottle.

It was nearly eleven o’clock before Susie got the children all quieted down, and then she went out to the car and brought all the presents back in and arranged them under the tree. Then, not wanting to see or hear her husband any more that night—he was like a big spoiled child throwing a tantrum—she herself went to sleep on the living room sofa.

Frank Junior awoke her in the morning, crying, “Look, Mama! Nackles didn’t come, he didn’t come!” And pointed to the presents she’d placed under the tree.

The other two children came down shortly after, and Susie and the youngsters sat on the floor and opened the presents, enjoying themselves as much as possible, but still with restraint. There were none of the usual squeals of childish pleasure; no one wanted Daddy to come storming downstairs in one of his rages. So the children contented themselves with ear-to-ear smiles and whispered exclamations, and after a while Susie made breakfast, and the day carried along as pleasantly as could be expected under the circumstances.

It was a little after twelve that Susie began to worry about Frank’s non-appearance. She braved herself to go up and knock on the locked door and call his name, but she got no answer, not even the expected snarl, so just around one o’clock she called me and I hurried on over. I rapped smartly on the bedroom door, got no answer, and finally I threatened to break the door in if Frank didn’t open up. When I still got no answer, break the door in I did.

And Frank, of course, was gone.

The police say he ran away, deserted his family, primarily because of Susie’s fourth pregnancy. They say he went out the window and dropped to the backyard, so Susie wouldn’t see him and try to stop him. And they say he didn’t take the car because he was afraid Susie would hear him start the engine.

That all sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? Yet I just can’t believe Frank would walk out on Susie without a lot of shouting about it first. Nor that he would leave his car, which he was fonder of than his wife and children.

But what’s the alternative? There’s only one I can think of: Nackles.

I would rather not believe that. I would rather not believe that Frank, in inventing Nackles and spreading word of him, made him real. I would rather not believe that Nackles actually did visit my sister’s house on Christmas Eve.

But did he? If so, he couldn’t have carried off any of the children, for a more subdued and better behaved trio of youngsters you won’t find anywhere. But Nackles, being brand-new and never having had a meal before, would need somebody. Somebody to whom he was real, somebody not protected by the shield of Santa Claus. And, as I say, Frank was drinking that night. Alcohol makes the brain believe in the existence of all sorts of things. Also, Frank was a spoiled child if there ever was one.

There’s no question but that Frank Junior and Linda Joyce and Stewart believe in Nackles. And Frank spread the gospel of Nackles to others, some of whom spread it to their own children. And some of whom will spread the new Evil to other parents. And ours is a mobile society, with families constantly being transferred by Daddy’s company from one end of the country to another, so how long can it be before Nackles is a power not only in this one city, but all across the nation?

I don’t know if Nackles exists, or will exist. All I know for sure is that there’s suddenly a new meaning in the lyric of that popular Christmas song. You know the one I mean:

You’d better watch out.

Note: I believe this story to be in the public domain.  Merry Christmas!

Nah Nah Nah Nah Nah

     Chicken.
     Scaredy Cat.
     Turkey.
     Kids crack me up.
     I'm getting ahead of myself ...


     Gone are the days when families raised food for their family's consumption, but years ago most families did. Each had some sort of garden and raised animals for meat. Even families who resided "in town" and were spatially challenged kept smaller animals such as fowl for meat and/or eggs. Chickens and turkeys were as familiar to most children, then, as cats and dogs are to children now.
     And for generations, taunts derived from this knowledge have echoed in America's school yards. Chicken. BOOOCK! BockBockBock; on the surface a seemingly simple insult, yet when one pauses underlying complexities are apparent.
     The kid who is a chicken is a vastly different creature than the kid who is a scaredy cat and the kid who is a turkey.
     Chickens are just stupid and afraid of anything unfamiliar, and that makes them "flighty". That is the definition of a chicken, it is an inherent quality, and the one word is sufficient.
     Scaredy cat. Two words. Cats are smarter, more complex creatures than chickens, and require an adjective to accurately convey the taunter's intent. What kind of cat? A scaredy cat.
     Turkey - again, one word. A living, breathing, flesh and blood domestic turkey is possibly the dumbest animal on earth. It is apt to die at any given moment because it's too stupid to be afraid. It walks right into the danger with a skip in its step and a song in its heart. Turkey is the perfect moniker to assign to the class fool oblivious of the consequences of his* actions. You know this kid's going to spend a lot of recesses with his head on his desk.
     Kids don't need to think about any of this - they just know it. Even while taunting, they know there's more purpose in taunting the scaredy cat than the chicken because the chicken is long gone - it flew the coop. The scaredy cat is still hanging around assessing the situation before committing. And it isn't necessary to taunt the turkey cause he just went ahead and did it, and he will either die or get in big trouble - each has entertainment value to kids, so the turkey actually has a certain bizarre social standing.  
     The most fascinating thing about all of this, though, is the staying power of these taunts. Generations later they are still used. Children who've never even driven by a farm use these with acumen. They get the subtleties. They wield the taunt with wit and precision.
     Or maybe it's come full circle. Maybe it is a chicken/egg situation. Are children calling little Johnny a turkey because they know turkeys are fools, or, do little Johnny's antics teach children that turkeys are fools? It reminds me that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
     Our world has evolved with technological advances, and the family farm has all but disappeared. Amazingly, and thankfully, memories of days gone by linger on. We owe that to children, and I tip my hat.
     And enjoy your turkey without guilt or remorse. It had a happy life. Killing that bird was a kindness, really. Something would have gotten him.

Happy Thanksgiving.

* often gender specific




addendum - for the purposes of this post I limited my examples of the etymology of insults from the barn yard setting ......but there are more. Pig, Jackass, Hound Dog, Rat... all are worthy of a moment of contemplation.

Send 'em South!

     The Aldermere Achievers 4-H Club members have worked hard in preparation for this day.  They fly to Louisville, Kentucky (their cows went on ahead with Ron and Jake) to compete at the North American International Livestock Expo. 
  

   

Alice, Addie, Erin, Ellie, Frances, Tyler, Sam, and Lucy with leader Heidi and Randi in pre-show meeting.

     This trip is the culmination of not just their regular show season in New England, but preparing their animals (and themselves) since the end of last year’s show season. 

     Their heifers and steers have been trained and conditioned to represent the Belted Galloway breed, Aldermere Farm, and Maine in the best possible light.

     Their own involvement in 4-H has included participation in youth events and competitions, conferences, community service projects, and excursions. These activities included sales and marketing presentations, Livestock Knowledge Bowls, the Mentor Program, fitting and showmanship, animal husbandry and herd management classes, photography and art, and even a cooking contest with our naturally raised Belted Galloway Beef. The club has enjoyed many enriching experiences, taken home awards, and one of our members even won the Sportsmanship Award at the Skowhegan Fair in August. They visited farms, and made many friends across New England.

     They have, through various fundraising events over the past year, such as public dinners, raffles, the farmstand at Aldermere Farm, and the kind support of local businesses, friends, and families, raised the cost of this trip.

     All of the members (and their parents) thank the Baker and Howard families; Heidi, Ron, Jake, Dwight, and all of the staff at Aldermere Farm.  With out their constant guidance and support none of this would be possible.  Most especially Sonja, who is an unfailing voice of enthusiasm, and Farm Stand Fairy Extraordinaire!  

Special thanks to Randie, Matt, Raymond, Jeff, Kevin, Sarah, and Amy for all the efforts and support!

It's going to be a good time!