The Lost Boys, directed by Joel Schumacher, is an American horror-comedy movie released in mid-1987. It was recently on HBO, so I revisited the film. Lucy (Dianne Wiest), recently divorced, packs up her belongings, her two teen-age sons Michael (Jason Patric), Sam (Corey Haim), and their Alaskan Malamute Nanook and heads off to fictional Santa Carla in northern California (“the murder capital of the world”) to live with her father.

And the adventure begins. The movie introduces the characters of David (Kiefer Sutherland), and his cohorts Paul (Brooke McCarter), Dwayne (Billy Wirth) and Marko (Alex Winter) as they terrorize the boardwalk of the small town. Michael will make their acquaintance shortly when he feels an immediate attraction to Star (Jamie Gertz) at a beach concert the following night. Star often accompanies David and his friends when they visit the boardwalk. Sam, meanwhile, meets his own strange set of friends in the Frog brothers: Edgar (Corey Feldman) and Alan (Jamison Newlander). The Frog brothers run a comic book establishment on the boardwalk, but that is only a cover, as they are dedicated vampire hunters. They give Sam a comic book about vampires, despite Sam’s protestation he does not like horror comics. The Frog brothers indicate Santa Carla is a vampire haven, and Sam plays along in amusement. Sam’s amusement with the idea of vampires ends quickly the night Nanook attacks Michael, and Michael floats by Sam’s bedroom window shortly thereafter.

Madcap mayhem erupts as Sam and the Frog brothers set out to free Santa Carla of vampires. The deadpan expressions and impeccable delivery of lines by several characters gives comic relief from the more dramatic moments. There are some gruesome scenes and one physical encounter between Michael and Star, implicit rather than explicit, making this a movie unsuitable for young viewers. The theme song of the movie is Cry Little Sister, performed by Gerard McMahon. Despite the somewhat bizarre and dark nature of the lyrics, I found the song strangely moving. Cinematography is well done, with scenes of moonlight on the ocean, the amusement park of the boardwalk glowing in the background, and firelit beach parties. Special effects is also well done, rendering characters you would be loath to meet when they are in vampire mode.

Three out of five stars

Political alienation of the electorate is an issue dominating modern culture and is a direct result of political language. In a 2017 Pew Research study, millions of Americans did not vote in the 2016 Presidential election. The reason of dislike for the candidates and campaign issues reached a new high of 25%, compared to 13% in the 2012 Presidential election. Language, and its resultant jargon, politically alienates an electorate by obfuscating issues, and reduces the capacity for a citizen to be a member of an informed populace. Consider one word that has crept into mainstream political speech: “mansplaining”. In 2014, in a debate for the North Carolina Senate seat, Republican Thom Tillis raised the ire of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee when he disputed the budget numbers provided by the Democratic incumbent, Senator Kay Hagan. His comment that the math didn’t work raised cries of “mansplaining”. In early 2018 Democratic Senator Corey Booker raised the ire of the Republican National Committee, and Chairwoman Ronna McDaniel accused Senator Booker of “mansplaining” to Homeland Security Secretary Kirstjen Nielson at a Senate Judiciary hearing. Ms. Neilson did not recall hearing President Trump use a derogatory reference regarding African countries in an immigration meeting, and Senator Booker, after an impassioned speech, indicated he thought Ms. Neilson was supporting White House bigotry. The outcry over mansplaining in both cases obscured the actual issues of budgetary accuracy and bigotry.

The language of political alienation is best exemplified by the recent Senate Judiciary hearing for the confirmation of Judge Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court. Dr. Ford is labeled a political tool. Judge Kavanaugh’s opening statement includes points that the allegations of sexual misconduct to derail his nomination were a calculated political hit and anger over President Trump’s election. Democratic Senator Blumenthal moves to adjourn the hearing, which he calls both a mockery and a charade. Republican Senator Graham calls the allegations of sexual misconduct a despicable effort by his Democratic colleagues to destroy Judge Kavanaugh’s life. The pertinent issues of an alleged sexual assault to Dr. Ford and the loss of due process for Judge Kavanaugh are side-lined by heated rhetoric from both sides of the aisle. In the court of public opinion, both Dr. Ford and Judge Kavanaugh are found wanting. Judge Kavanaugh is confirmed by a vote of 50-48. Of the 50 votes to confirm, 49 are Republican and 1 is Democratic. Of the 48 votes not to confirm, all are Democrat. Party affiliation dominated the vote. There is no justice or validation for Dr. Ford if the allegations of sexual misconduct are true. There is no justice or validation for Judge Kavanaugh if the allegations of sexual misconduct are false.

The language of political alienation flows through the entire confirmation hearing. The hearing itself is a “mockery”, “charade”, “despicable effort”, “political hit” as voiced by various members of the Senate Judiciary. The Senate Judiciary Committee is charged with investigating and confirming individuals to a life-long position to the Supreme Court, the highest court in our country. Political alienation occurs in the electorate because the language employed in the hearing failed to resolve the two actual issues: allegations of sexual misconduct by Judge Kavanaugh suffered by Dr. Ford, and the loss of due process with these allegations suffered by Judge Kavanaugh. Political alienation occurs because it was clearly about “winning” and “losing” between the Republican and Democratic members of each party.

http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2017/06/01/dislike-of-candidates-or-campaign-issues-was-most-common-reason-for-not-voting-in-2016/

Multiple sources indicate haiku, a brief and evocative poem, originated in Japan, but disagree as to the timing: some say thirteenth century, others fifteenth century, and some claim seventeenth century. What they agree on is that the form is 17 syllables (English format) done in a 5-7-5 pattern over three lines. These are not absolutes of haiku, and many authors use more or less syllables. Sources seem to agree that haiku was once the lead-in to a renga, a 100-verse form of poetry, and Bashō, a Japanese samurai warrior, elevated the status of haiku to an art form in itself. Traditional haiku always has a kigo (a season word) to indicate to the reader what season the poet places his work. The main theme of the haiku must appeal to one of the five senses. The power of haiku resides in the unsaid words of the author…the reader must drill down through the written words of 17 syllables to grasp the sentiment and meaning the composer wants to convey.

Where has he gone to
My hunter of dragonflies?
What does he hunt now?

(Unknown author, possibly written by Lady Kaga no Chiyo)

The reader knows a child has been lost. We don’t know the circumstances, but the haiku resonates with the grief, longing and despair that accompanies terrible loss.

And there is Dag Hammarskjöld:

Denied any outlet,
The heat transmuted the
coal into diamonds.

According to Roger Lipsey’s biography Hammarskjöld: A Life, haikus of this nature revealed Hammarskjöld’s deep and intense loneliness; his sense of “having missed something” by not marrying and having children. He immersed himself in his work, and surrounded by books, theatre, and numerous friendships of a deep and lasting nature, lived a full life.

And Bashō, samurai warrior turned poet, loved Nature and all her aspects. A good portion of his haiku revolves around the four seasons. In his work he transformed the ordinary to extraordinary.

The upper reaches here
And the lower of the river.
The friend for the moon.

To an old pond
A frog leaps in.
And the sound of the water.

And there is the light, amusing and clever cat haiku:

Seeking solitude
I am locked in the closet.
For once I need you.

(Catku: What is the Sound of One Cat Napping? Pat Welch)

Your mouth is moving;
Up and down, emitting noise.
I've lost interest.

(Catku: What is the Sound of One Cat Napping? Pat Welch)

If you’ve ever owned a cat, Esteemed Reader, you will know the truths found in these snippets.

So here is my feeble attempt at the art of haiku:

The Book of Love holds
family, friends, pets, places-
I read it often.

Give it a try!

I had a run of introspection the other day when I saw a post from an individual reminiscing about the "good old days", and how much he missed them. I thought I would take some time to look at my own beliefs and behaviours, and how they may have changed. What did the 20 year old Trist find important and valuable the 60 year old Trist finds less so? So, Esteemed Reader, here is my list:

Attitude
@20 5:00 AM Yay! Time to get up!
@60 5:00 AM Crap…time to get up…
Throws back curtains and looks out window

@20 (Admires snow pelting down at an inch an hour with the face of a girl on the edge of anticipation):

How cool! It's so beautiful, I can't wait to get out into it...

@60 (Peers at snow pelting down at an inch an hour with the face of a woman on the edge):
What fresh hell is this?

Exercise
@20 150 squats in less then 15 minutes. Examines posterior end in mirror. Buns of steel!

@60 5 squats in less then 15 minutes. Examines posterior end in mirror. No buns of steel.

@20 Vigourous work-out on stationary bike.
@60 Vigourous dusting of stationary bike.

Personal appearance

@20 Pulls on shape-flattering bra. The girls love perky.

(End of day remove carefully and gently insert in lingerie laundry bag).

@60 Push shape-flattering bra to back of drawer. The girls could care less about perky. The girls want comfort. Sports bra.

(End of day yank off, roll up in ball, shoot it from the free throw line to sink it into the laundry bin with the rest of the clothes).

@20 Brush hair, curl, add products to improve hydration and add volume. Arrange tresses to frame face.

@60 Roll hair into ball and secure with banana clip on top of head. Release hair, comb, roll back into ball and secure with banana clip on top of head.

Automotive Skills:

@20 I can’t believe I figured out how to gap the Honda’s spark plugs. I’m a genius.

@60 I can’t believe I dumped anti-freeze in the Chevy’s windshield washer fluid reservoir. I’m an idiot.

@20 Go out to car, flat tire. Get spare from trunk, jack up car. Secure jack poorly. Car falls, punctures gas tank. Fire Department arrives. Unhappy parents when handed invoice for services rendered in preventing neighborhood from erupting into an inferno.

@60 Go out to car, flat tire. Call roadside assistance, go back in house, have a fresh cup of coffee, read. Tip young gentleman $5.00 for changing tire. Cheaper than Fire Department.

Patience:

@20 Warn clamouring, bouncing collies in a reasonable, normal decibel voice a time out is imminent if bad behavior doesn’t cease.

@60 Warn clamouring, bouncing huskies in unreasonable, high decibel voice annihilation is imminent if bad behavior doesn’t cease.

Amazement Level:

@20 Watch news clip on TV. Amazed first moon of Pluto identified.

@60 Watch infomercial on Bissell Pet Pro. Amazed that it sucks up spaghetti and fur at the same time.

Stamina:

@20 Dress to impress. Go to Jethro Tull concert. Love Jethro Tull!

@60 Pull on ratty Garfield pajamas. Go to La-Z-Boy recliner. Love La-Z-Boy!

@20 Still going strong after Tull concert. Breakfast, then rounds of billiards and alcoholic refreshments with friends and fellow concert goers.

@60 Fall asleep during Family Feud. Hot chocolate grows cold.

Political Acumen:

@20 Watch and listen intently to Presidential debate. Numerous issues discussed. Can’t beat informed.

@60 Watch and listen intently to Republican Presidential primary. Size of various body parts of candidates debated. Name-calling. Can’t fix stupid.

Patriotism:

@20 Nod in agreement when someone says “America is the greatest country in the world!”

@60 Nod in agreement when Dennis Miller says: America may be the greatest country in the world, but that’s kind of like being the valedictorian of summer school.

@20 America – Love It or Leave It!

@60 Why not stick around and try to change it for the better? Advocate, participate, be informed.

Humour:

@20 Laugh uproariously at knock knock jokes.
@60 Laugh uproariously at Frasier in a clown costume pranking his father Martin, and nearly killing him.

Refinement: (As a wedding guest)

@20 Unfold linen napkin carefully, smooth napkin out on lap.
@60 Snap linen napkin open, use as bib.

@20 Anxiously and softly question companion what the proper fork is for the salad. Very hungry, eat delicately.

@60 Very hungry. Grab cocktail fork and wolf down salad.

Regarding sweat:

@20 Avoid perspiration at all costs. Embarrassing.
@60 Perspiration is a naturally occurring body function. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Spending Habits:

@20 Write astronomical check to cable company without batting an eye. Service includes: TV with 500 channels, blazing hot internet speed, and modern digital phone service. Can’t miss the important calls to go out.

@60 Duct tape indoor antenna for digital receiver box to window. Have access to 10 channels. Wait for 5 minutes as internet barely a cut above manual dial-up struggles to connect. No phone, the less telemarketer calls the better.

The core beliefs, Esteemed Reader, have remained the same. Try to always do the right thing, try to be kind and empathetic, try to remember no matter how flat you make a pancake, there are always two sides.

A Favorite Quote (von Goethe, Anster's translation)

@20 What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it..

@60 What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it..

Practical Magic is the title of a 1998 romantic comedy film, based on the book of the same name written in 1995 by Alice Hoffman. The title itself suggests a dichotomy; “practical”, the actual doing or use of something; and “magic”, the power of apparently influencing events by using mysterious or supernatural forces. The story is about two Owens sisters, Sally (portrayed by Sandra Bullock) and Gillian (portrayed by Nicole Kidman). Sally and Gillian are descended from a long line of Owens women, starting with the matriarch of the family Maria, who is exiled to an island in Massachusetts with her unborn child. Exile only comes after they try to hang her as a witch:

Young Gillian Owens: [about the Owen's ancestor, Maria] Is that why they wanted to hang her? Because she was a witch?
Aunt Frances Owens: The fact that she was a bit of a heartbreaker didn't help. Nor did it help that most of her lovers had wives on the hanging committee.

The rope snaps, and Maria lands solidly on her feet, terrifying the villagers and sending them scurrying in fear. She waits in vain on the deserted island for her lover to return and rescue her and their baby. When he does not, she casts a spell protecting herself from falling in love again. In the ensuing years, it becomes a curse for future generations of Owens women: any man that falls in love with an Owens woman meets an untimely death.

Thus Sally and Gillian come to live with their maternal aunts Frances and Jet, also sisters, after the loss of their parents. Like all Owens women, there are always two sisters: one dark-haired, the other redheaded. The household is unique: chocolate cake for breakfast and homework pushed aside to study magical techniques of lighting candles with a breath.

Sally and Gillian grow up and go their separate ways into adulthood, Sally meeting, falling in love, and marrying a local produce worker. They have two girls: one dark-haired and one redheaded. Her husband dies in a tragic accident, and she demands her aunts bring him back to life. They refuse…it goes against the natural order of things, and what he will come back as will not be that what she loved. (A human version of Stephen King’s 1983 Pet Sematary). Gillian is in Florida, involved with an unsavory gentleman (Jimmy) who has the violent tendencies of an alcoholic.

Sally goes to Gillian’s aid when Jimmy becomes physically abusive, and whilst they are leaving Jimmy kidnaps them both. Sally takes belladonna from Gillian’s handbag and drops it into Jimmy’s bottle of tequila so he will sleep. In a drunken haze he tries to choke Gillian and dies from an overdose of belladonna. The sisters return to the aunts’ home and try to bring him back to life. They succeed, and Jimmy tries to throttle Gillian immediately upon resurrection. Sally clobbers him with a frying pan, and once again he succumbs to death. The sisters’ misadventures now involve cover-up and the resulting consequences, including Jimmy’s evil spirit possessing Gillian.

The movie has:

Humor:

Sally: So, you're drugging your boyfriend to get a little shut-eye? Doesn't that seem a little strange to you?

Officer Hallet: Did you or your sister kill James Angelov?
Sally: Yeah, a couple of times.

Pathos:

Young Sally: “Mommy died of a broken heart, didn’t she?”

Family:

Aunt Frances [to young Sally and Gillian] That's how you came to live with us. We tucked you into our lives then. We've raised you the best way we know how.
Gillian to Sally: My blood...your blood...our blood.

But the scene that moves me most occurs in the grand finale of the movie. Sally activates the school’s phone tree and summons nine of the members to the aunts’ house, forming a coven of twelve to save Gillian. The hand clasps between women are shown individually, accompanied by a drum roll sounding like some great cosmic lock releasing; and the final handclasp between the two remaining women breaks the hold of Jimmy on Gillian, and the hold of Maria’s curse on the Owens women.

And therein is the human moment that moves me deeply and powerfully. It's not woman solidarity, not witchcraft, not cosmic forces, not curses, not evil spirits, not good overcoming evil, but twelve human beings united to make a wrong right. Human beings have the capacity to wreak harm, horror, devastation on fellow humans, animals, the planet; we also have the ability to come together, stand together, accomplish together what one cannot do alone.

4 out of 5 stars

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfkAw6a05F0

This morning I awoke to the musical scale looping ceaselessly through my coffee-deprived brain:

DO! Doe, a deer, a female deer…
RE! Ray, a drop of golden sun…
MI! Me, a name I call myself…

Ah, Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music is the designated earworm of the day. After two large cups of coffee and chewing gum a wad size that would make any cow proud, it lingered. I vainly tried to replace it with a Porcupine Tree tune but failed. I desperately reached for a trusted and yet-to-fail standby, Jethro Tull and accompanying broadsword.

Well, I thought glumly, beats what usually gets stuck up there.

Said loops of music rely on the theme songs from 1960’s and 1970’s American sit-coms: Gilligan’s Island Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…; Mr. Ed, A horse is a horse, of course, of course…; Maude, Lady Godiva was a freedom rider…; The Jeffersons We’re moving on up, to the east side… And one can’t forget the cheerful tweeting of the Leave It to Beaver introductory song.

Then there is the more spiritual Kumbaya, someone’s laughing, my Lord, kumbaya…; the inspirational Shamu the Killer Whale live and let live, let nature be your teacher…; and the inscrutable and multi-faceted American Pie Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry…

These, Esteemed Reader, are known as “earworms”. According to Wikipedia, 98% of individuals experience this phenomenon. It visits genders equally, though supposedly lasts longer and irritates women more. A memory of a person, place, thing, smell may give birth to an earworm, or vice versa.

Earworm songs seem to contain some similar elements: a fast upbeat and tempo, the rising and falling of pitch during the song, simple unaltering patterns with occasional odd intervals.

On rare instances the smell of a wood fire ushers in the ugliest of the Trist earworms, or so she thinks: The Baby Bumblebee Song. A memory, shrouded in decades of time and old age brain cells, of a bus and a trip to camp. A campfire, then a song, with gestures imitating the lyrics of the song. A song that thinly suggests, in my opinion, callousness and hard-heartedness and a lack of regard for fellow living things. Take a chill pill, Trist! one may exclaim. It’s just a silly song about a bumblebee taught to young girls around a campfire! I leave it up to you, Esteemed Reader, to decide the merits of the case.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amhqwoD0qjw

Hmmm…first I travel home with the baby bumblebee. All well and good, the bumblebee and I are having a grand old time on this journey. Well, maybe I am a party of one; the baby bumblebee is trapped within my clasped hands and doesn’t have much say in the matter. Its homeward bound journey to the hive has been interrupted, and it now goes towards alien territory, with unknowns lurking, to a house it does not know. I let it go, and then it stings me. Perhaps it does so because it feels threatened, or I resemble a tasty flower redolent of promising nectar; it is instinctual on the bee’s part. And what do I do? I am not a creature driven totally by instinct but travel through life bolstered with the ability for logical and rational thought. I retaliate against a much smaller creature than myself and punish it for doing what is in its nature to do. I smack it. Now certainly, one could think of the smack as self-defense, and that I would agree with, if I had stopped there. Do I? Oh no, I then squish it up. Team Trist: 1. Team Baby Bumblebee: 0. The creature is obliterated, a gooey mess of what it once was and meant. Now I must clean up my mess, scrub away the incriminating evidence, so that mommy will be proud of me and not mad at me. I confess the whole ugly incident to Mommy. I receive a pat on the head; commendation for cleaning up the mess. The shaking of the head…is that recrimination for going beyond self-defense with the one smack? In that shaking head are there vehement words instructing a child one does not needlessly squish up a fellow creature? Mommy should verbalize these thoughts, not leaving off with a head pat. Oh, Sweet Child O’ Mine, not a song I would have taught you…ever.

So, if you run across a woman exuberantly bellowing out the lyrics of 1960’s and 1970’s American sit-coms, chomping a wad of gum, don’t be afraid, she’s just deworming. But if she’s singing The Baby Bumblebee Song, eyes distant, sporting a slightly lopsided grin, and rubbing her hands together, run. Run to beat the band, and don’t look back.

Important Note: Be assured, Esteemed Reader, no baby bumblebees were harmed, past or present, in the recounting of this tale.

I was born and raised in an era where the line between “girl” activities and “boy” activities was sharply delineated. For example, there was physical education, or “gym” class, as it was known in grade school. In frigid New England weather, we stayed inside. The entire gymnasium was given over to the boys. One half of the gymnasium was occupied by boys practicing the fine arts of dribbling and shooting baskets, high-fiving team members when they scored a basket. The other half was utilized by boys involved in intense volleyball games. There leaping youngsters spiked the ball at opponents’ undefended positions, and perfected set-ups from the back row to the front row. Where were the girls, you, Esteemed Reader, ask? We were jammed in a corner, swaying.

Yes, swaying. Led by Mrs. Dougherty, a quite plump, rotund and jovial gym instructor, who advised us that young ladies, and the corresponding women we would become, should be graceful, delicate, poised. To accomplish this, we would sway side to side, imitating the grace of a willow tree.

Hmphhh…I was disgruntled. What did I know about grace, delicacy, poise? I clumped through life with huge clown feet and coke-bottle glasses perpetually sliding down my nose. Besides that, what fairness was there in this? Why couldn’t we be chasing basketballs and perfecting OUR spikes? But no, we stand here, crowded and cramped, swaying like a tree…

“Trist! Pay attention!”

I jerked back to the present to discover I was swaying in the opposite direction of my fellow classmates. Apparently this was going to be a choreographed exercise.

“Good, girls! Now extend your arms…sway, sway. Imagine you are a willow tree! You are graceful, you are delicate, swaying in the gentle winds.”

I perked up. I could do that. I could imagine I was a willow tree…

I entered Willow Glen and approached my fellow willows. Branches entwined with mine and panic and fear swept through me as the urgency of my companions entered the watery sap of my trunk.

A storm, Trist! my companions whispered. A coastal storm, brewing off the Atlantic Ocean, and headed directly at us! A northeaster…the worst kind.

I rustled and brooded with them, wondering if we could withstand a direct hit.

“Trist! What ARE you doing??”

Once again, I was jerked back to the very warm, and very odorous, gymnasium. Apparently unbeknownst to me, joined in fear and dismay with my companions back in Willow Glen, my feet had broken into a jig. Said jig was a hybrid variant of an Irish step dance and a sailor’s delight at a confirmed shore leave. I was swaying so violently my arms struck the companions on either side of me, and whom rewarded me with annoyed glances and steps further away from my vicinity.

I rejoined the gentler and coordinated swaying of the class and slipped back to Willow Glen.

Panic and fear still reigned. Wait! I exclaimed. We’re willow trees! Our roots run deep into the earth, anchoring us in the fiercest tempest winds. Our tops sway and bend, yielding but never breaking; we and our offspring have survived centuries of adverse conditions; yet we live on!

There were exclamations of agreement and hope from my fellow willows. Yes! We are willow trees! Our roots are deep and strong. We bend, we sway, we never break!

“TRIST!”

The entire class was paused, and Mrs. Dougherty’s face was beet-red.

“You are DISRUPTING the class! What are you doing?”

I shuffled my sneaker sheepishly against the polished wood of the floor.

“I’m sorry. I was consoling my fellow willows and urging them not to be afraid of the impending storm.”

“What storm? There is no storm! What are you going on about?”

“No, not here. In Willow Glen.”

“Willow Glen? I’ve had it with you. Leave the line now, and go to detention!”

I left the line with great relief and looked forward to detention. It would beat this lame exercise where we were encouraged to be passive, not competitive. Delicate? Were we china teacups brought out on special occasions, or blood and flesh girls with muscles to run and play with? Graceful and poised, not rough and tumble team members striving to win. Yes, competition has some negative connotations, but it also develops and fosters cooperation, working together as a unit, a sense of honor and fair play; good things to take out to one’s future employment and the world at large.

I would stop at my locker before going to detention. I had just picked up Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand from the library. Now Dagny Taggert was a character I could get behind: she sure wasn’t delicate and passive and non-competitive. Dagny took no crap from anyone, and she was rebuilding a railroad empire. Dagny was overcoming obstacle after obstacle to achieve her goal and her dream. That didn’t prevent her from loving deeply, forming great friendships, succeeding at business and at life. Dagny was my type of willow tree!

From the time I was a child, Esteemed Reader, I loved Halloween. I’d start in early summer planning my costume for the one night one could be any character one desired: a fairy godmother, a villain, a superhero. I worked part-time at a coffee and bake shop when I was in my mid-teens, a time when I was short on smarts and long on exuberance. In the beginning of October our boss announced a best costume contest for the employees. I could barely contain my excitement: a contest for best costume! I was going all out: no carefully crafted home-made costume. Nope..I was going to RENT one! After numerous phone calls I made my selection: I was going to be a DUCK.

I left school and zoomed over to the costume shop. Ah...my eyes glazed over when the attendant brought it out: it was perfect. It was as close to being a duck as one could be if one wasn't a duck. I admired the realistic appearance of layers of feathers molded into the plastic and material, the vast plastic domed tail, the massive duck head, equipped with shocking blue eyes and gargantuan yellow beak. And the feet! Realistically webbed, and in keeping with the spirit of the costume, giant yellow bases to slip one's sneakers into. That night I donned the costume, and briskly set off across the yard to go to work. Disaster struck before I reached the end of the yard. Railroad ties decorated the boundaries of our front lawn, and having limited forward vision and obstructed peripheral vision, the webbed foot fit quite neatly under the small space between tie and lawn. The webbed foot stayed, the duck kept going. Down I went, and the head turned sideways, eliminating vision, and something equally important, air. I rolled back and forth, trying to jockey the plastic body above my knees so they would bend and I could get up from the lawn. For the first time I appreciated Scout’s dilemma in her ham costume in To Kill A Mockingbird. A young boy’s voice piped up from the vicinity of the street: “Look, Mommy, there’s a sick duck rolling around in that yard!”

The plastic body had rucked up far enough for my knees to emerge, and I pushed up off the lawn. I waddled down the street at a fairly brisk pace and arrived at work with no further incident. Sam, the head baker, looked up from the super-sized industrial mixer when I walked into the back room. He laughed and said “Aw, Trist, you look so cute.” He took the Polaroid, snapped my picture, and tacked it up on the bulletin board with the others. I scanned the various pictures: pirates, witches, a fairy princess...but no ducks! I was a shoo-in.

I did a little happy ducky dance on my way to the sink to scrub out the soaking coffee pots. Big mistake. I imagine webbed feet work quite well in water for their natural owners; however, for humans on a tile floor, not so good. The bottom of the webbed foot hit a patch of water, my feet flew out from under me, and I began a long slide on the slightly inclined floor towards said sink. Sam had just finished loading a clean, massive stainless-steel bowl with flour, and the sight of a duck sliding across the floor must have been distracting, for he forgot to engage the locks on the bowl. The timer to the mixer kicked in, and the bowl flew off the pedestal, bouncing across the tiled floor and spewing flour at an impressive clip. Pandemonium erupted. “Catch that bowl!” Sam barked at the two other bakers, and the chase was on. “And would SOMEONE please pull Trist out from under the sink!"

George helped me to my feet, and I inquired anxiously about the costume. “Ayuh, Trist, you've got some grease there on your backside."

“Grease? GREASE? How much grease? Is it bad?”

“Naw. Put some dish soap on it when you get home.”

I pulled the jelly pump down from the shelf to clean it and placed it on the finishing table. The baker working the previous shift had not only neglected to empty it of jelly, but also neglected to cap the ends. Jelly shot out both nozzles, dousing the front of the costume with bright red globs. Forgetting the size of the beak, my head tilted down to assess the damage, and the plastic beak impacted with the stainless-steel table. There was a loud crack.

“Sam? SAM!” I wailed.

"Now what?" he yelled, exasperated.

"The beak! I just hit the beak. I think I broke it!"

I sniffled, fighting back the tears. I went to the office, grabbed a clean shirt and shuffled into the small changing room. Once the costume was off, my heart sank when I saw the grass stains, grease, jelly...the now one-toed instead of three left webbed foot, and the pièce de résistance: the beak cracked open and now sporting a somewhat lunatic grin. I can kiss the damage deposit good-bye, I thought glumly.

At home, I removed the vinegar and laundry soap soaks from the arms and chest, the dish soap soaks from the posterior end, and released the clamps from the beak once the Superglue had dried. I studied the costume. Slight improvement, but the damage deposit was certainly forfeited. I wouldn't be surprised if I was going to be the new owner of a not so gently used duck costume.

That night in my journal, under the LESSONS LEARNED tab I made one single entry: Always make your own Halloween costume.

I had a dream, Dear Reader, when I acquired my two present huskies: I was going to build a sledding team. There was no thought of running the Iditarod: what woman, rapidly approaching the 50-year milestone, dreams of that? Well, possibly some, but I wasn’t one of them. But there were several fine sledding clubs in New England. First things first, training! I enrolled them both in Puppy class. Socialized, sitting on command, mastering “Leave It” and “Drop It”, they graduated to Beginner. And there the troubles began.

The fourth week of class was the “Come” command. The trainer drew me aside and told me not to be discouraged. “Huskies have difficulty with this particular command,” she cautioned me. Indeed, they do. The boy translated “Come” into “Cavort” and cavort he did. The girl ambled everywhere except to me. But the real trouble was yet to begin. That occurred in class six with the “Heel” command.

I’m at class early, and the trainer inquired how the training for “Heel” was going. I glanced apprehensively at the girl husky, who was occupied admiring the handsome boxer in the next ring.

I beckoned the trainer closer and whispered sotto voce: “Don’t say the word…it upsets her. Spell it out please.”

The trainer’s eyebrows quirked upwards: “Spell it out?”

“Yes, please. H E E L.”

She peered at me disapprovingly. “Are you working with her every night?”

“Oh yes. We’re actually H E E L I N G.”

She appeared puzzled. “How far are you H E E L I N G?”

“Five feet!” I exclaimed proudly.

Ut oh…there goes the eyebrows again…

“Trist, the test to pass is one hour. She has to H E E L for at least a hundred feet in that test.”

My heart sank. I’m going to have to reveal the sordid details of our five-foot heel. After I issue the command, there is howling, screeching, lunging, biting the leash, five feet of zigzag walking, and then the grand finale: she throws herself prostrate on the ground. Peanut butter treats cease to work.

She saw the dismay on my face and touched my arm encouragingly. “Stay after class, and we’ll work on the heel.”

The girl’s ears flew forward, and she lunged. The leash escaped my grasp, and she bolted. The trainer’s eyebrows shot up past her hairline and she’s off in hot pursuit, yelling to two of the cashiers and enlisting the aid of the Small Pets and Reptiles representative. I knew their chase was futile; unless they strapped a jet-propelled pack to their backs they would never catch her. I scoped out the store quickly and dashed to the last aisle. She’ll choose the longest stretch until she runs out of room. I quickly assembled the Husky Hurricane Barrier: bags of cat litter piled on either side of me, pyramids of canned dog food, the “Caution Wet Floor” sign added to the mix. The din is growing louder and coming my way: barking, yelling, the pounding of feet. Horrendous squawks from a parrot…Seriously? She’s mixing it up with a PARROT? The squawks abruptly stopped…either the poor thing had keeled over in fright or had flown safely into the rafters. I wondered briefly about lawsuits.

I tilted my head; did I call it right? She should have been here by now. And then there she was, rounding the corner of the aisle, and for a moment my heart lurched, and tears sprung to the corners of my eyes, for she was truly beautiful. Legs extended, firing like well-oiled pistons, sure-footed even on a slippery tile floor; muscles and sinews rippling, face lit in the pure joy of doing what she loved most: running to beat the band, racing the wind…and winning.

She saw me, and her face broke into a grin. THINK! The practical, no-nonsense voice in my head thundered: WHERE HAVE YOU SEEN THAT GRIN BEFORE?? Huh? Now that you mention it, where have I seen that grin before? Oh no…no…NO…

Profuse sweat broke out on my forehead, and my deodorant abandoned ship. I spread my feet slightly and bent my knees, lowering my center of gravity. I curled my toes through my sneakers against the unyielding tile floor and braced myself as she picked up even more speed coming down the stretch. In one last-ditch effort at self-preservation, I pointed at her and bellowed: “NO!”

She hit the launch button and sailed into my arms. They wrapped around her in both a protective and ‘no matter what happens you’re not escaping again’ embrace, and we began an elaborate dance. For those of you who have caught a 55-pound canine going Mach 10 when she launches, you will be quite familiar with these dance steps. The matter is further complicated by my inability to either see or breathe, as my face is firmly ensconced in a very furry chest. We begin with long, rapid steps backward in a poorly executed version of the Electric Slide, followed by several spins faintly reminiscent of the fandango, and the back of my legs hit an obstacle. We were in freefall and landed backwards on a pallet of 100-pound bags of dog food. It broke our fall and prevented injuries to either of us. The girl jumped off the pallet. I retained my death grip on the leash.

The trainer peered down anxiously at me. “Are you ok?” she gasped out. “Ish fa” I responded. “What?” she asked, eyebrows quirking yet again. I abandoned decorum, forsook dignity, said good-bye to civility, and yanked the clump of fur out of my mouth. “I’m fine,” I mumbled sheepishly. “I am so, so very sorry…” She waved it aside. “It happens. But I really need to get back to class.” I nodded. Ah, yes. The class. Where dogs are heeling nicely next to their owners’ sides; heads not quite even with the left knee of said owners, but that will come in time. No lunatic dogs there. The girl, bright eyes and lolling tongue, peered up happily at the circle of humans, and took no note of the glares thrown her way.

The crowd dispersed, and the girl jumped back up on the pallet, peering down at me. “What?” I demanded, my tone disgruntled, embarrassed, angry. “I am in no mood for any more of your hijinks!” She plopped down and pressed up against me. She laid her head on my chest and stared into my eyes. My fingers absently found that spot she loves scratched behind her left ear. She sighed, closed her eyes, and began to snore. I thought of something I once heard The Dog Whisperer Mr. Millan, say: “You don’t always get the dog you want, but you always get the dog you need.” I wondered if he was right. Where in my life, exactly, did I need a 55-pound Husky Howitzer? It would come to me, I guessed.

My reverie broke with the blare of the P.A. system:

“Clean-up aisle 2…Birdseed. Clean-up aisle 2: Canine Senior Multi-vitamins. Clean-up aisle 2: Prescription Diet k/d. Clean-up…”

I sighed, and she raised her head. “Off!” She jumped off the pallet and I tethered her securely to the bottom slat. There were bags of cat litter to return and pyramids of dog food to be re-stocked. First things first: return the “Caution Wet Floor” sign to the side of the mop bucket; that for sure was lawsuit material.

I recently returned from a tour, and said tour involved several overnight stays. There was one memorable experience at one establishment:

As a group we had gone to a performance in the course of our tour, and we had eaten quite early that evening to be seated in time for the show. Back in the hotel room, finding myself a bit hungry, I wandered down to the lobby. This was not an easy task: the hotel was somewhat maze-like. I pressed on. In the little market I'm reaching for a water and some crackers (popcorn vied for the slot as well, but the crackers had protein, 5 grams of it in the peanut butter!) when my name comes over the walkie-talkie; well, a rather bizarre pronunciation of it. Prior to my name is the solemn announcement "we've got a dead body". The receptionist grabs the walkie-talkie and admonishes the young lady not to even joke about that. The young lady laughs and says "Just kidding. She's MIA, and her luggage is sitting outside the room." I ponder...I seem to be alive and present, the cold water in my hand, the feel of human generated cold air blowing on my head...I pop my head out and say "Hey, I'm Trist. I'm not dead, not MIA, my luggage is in the room." The receptionist nearly drops the walkie-talkie, and I think: Aha! I am NOT dead; she both sees and hears me! After righting the walkie-talkie in her hands the receptionist instructs the ethereal voice on the other end of it to PROMPTLY remove the three gentlemen who have just entered my room, escorted by the ethereal voice, and whom are all wondering about the Winnie the Pooh hoodie, pants and T-shirts suspended neatly on the hangers, and the still steaming cup of coffee on the desk.

The receptionist advises me briskly that THE TOUR HAS CANCELLED ME. I assure her that no, evidence of the fact that I physically arrived via touring coach speaks volumes. My traveling companion cancelled at the last minute, not me. She had inadvertently scheduled another tour at the same time, and chose the other tour in lieu of this one. Oh no, the tour cancelled YOU, she informs me in a no-nonsense voice. "Let's think about this for a moment," I gently tell her, "I'm here, she's not." Images of completing a registration form, digging out the license and major credit card, having a new room assignment dance in my head. I think not. I am tired and hungry. I have been dead, MIA, and cancelled all within a fifteen minute time span. It's late, and I'm sorry for that, but things happen...call the Tour Director. NOW. After quite some time of rapid, staccato typing on the computer keyboard, phone hanging off her ear, it's sorted out. The gentlemen have been removed and put in another room, and I am no longer dead, missing in action, or cancelled.

I make the return trip to the room. This is a 15-minute trek of winding, maze-like corridors (I think often of Stephen King's Overlook Hotel in The Shining), and that's on a good run if I don't get lost. Finally, at the door, clutching my hard-won bottle of water and package of crackers, I discover the room key no longer works. I AM CANCELLED. Back I go to the lobby.

In 2007 there was a huge recall on pet food: melamine was found in several products, and was lethal to cats and dogs. I determined the day I read the recall my two huskies would never again consume commercial food. I would home-cook for them! Hours upon hours, days upon days of research, and I came up with a plan. The early days were...er...disastrous. Now, eleven years later, I have it down to a science.

The first disaster occurred on the second evening I prepared their dinner. I didn't have a food processor, but wait...a blender! I can use that...steel blades that go at an incredible speed, a "puree" selection...I'm good to go. Which, I must say, I resent the fact that there was no disclaimer on said kitchen appliance. They put one on irons: "Do not use whilst wearing clothes" and they put one on shower caps: "Fits one head", then they should certainly put a disclaimer on a blender: "Do not stuff with large chunks of turkey and hit the puree button."

The huskies are always an audience of two in attendance at any activity in the Trist household, so they were perfectly positioned when the top blew off the blender. Quite startled by flying turkey and leaping huskies, I dropped the dozen eggs on the floor. A bizarre thought flitted quickly through my brain: Now why can't they show such exuberance and energy in catching the Flexible Flyer? Noooo...they have to leave me standing there awash in guilt because I've just bounced a round, albeit soft, object off one of their chests...

Now, let me assure you, wending your way to turn off the blender in such circumstances is a bit treacherous. My foot hit a piece of turkey, now covered with gooey and slippery egg material, and I dropped, quite unexpectedly and with no grace whatsoever, to my backside. At this inopportune moment a chunk of turkey landed on my head, and to the boy...turkey is turkey, be it on the floor or the wall or a head. He snatched it gleefully, taking a decent chunk of my hair with it, and leaving me with a pronounced bald spot for several weeks. This prompted his pack leader, (that would be me), covered with turkey and egg material, to sit on him to unwind the hair from his teeth. It was midnight before I finally got the last bit of turkey cleaned from the track lighting.

I wearily headed for bed, stepping over two snoring, contented huskies. The boy twitched, his paws closing together in a pantomime of a catch. I grinned despite my tired state, for he dreamed of flying turkey no doubt. Sweet dreams, my furballs!

I have Siberian Huskies...two, to be exact. A male and a female. They are...an adventure...

Three weeks ago I open the door to let clamouring, bouncing huskies out. Per routine, I scan the pen, being sure there are no skunks, rabbits, or cats lurking. Clear. Out go the huskies. The girl bounds off to do her thing, the boy slams into the side of the house. I blearily peer down "Huh"? (No coffee yet)...I hear squeaking, and the boy peers up at me, two little mouse feet from one end of his jaw, two little mouse feet from the other end of his jaw. I screech in tandem with the mouse. Down the stairs I go, forgetting the first and most important rule of sharing one's life with these zany, unpredictable, irrepressible creatures...one NEVER chases a husky. We are off. In sledding jargon, the boy is the lead dog, Trist is the team dog, and the girl is the wheel dog. After several rousing and heart accelerating laps around the pen, the boy's ears turn inward. After 13 years of sharing space I know when his ears turn inward he's come up with an idea. Said 13 years has proven, irrevocably, that him getting an idea never bodes well for me. He slams on the brakes, pivots in a beautiful pirouette (the boy is the gazelle of the family), and barrels backwards through the line. I lunge, and miss. The girl is not so fortunate, she careens into the fence. He's on a dead run towards the house, with me behind him, yelling a very bad Dr. Seuss-like book title: NO MOUSE IN THE HOUSE! He is barreling up the stairs, I in hot pursuit. The girl is catching up fast. She reaches the bottom stair to find the door closed unceremoniously in her face. One husky and a mouse is challenging, two huskies and a mouse is ugly. The boy dives under the table. Chairs fly, the lamp goes air-bound. I follow. There goes the coat rack....we didn't really need that. I come out from under the table, and the quiet sane Trist in my mind whispers: Use. Your. Words. "Drop it!" I bellow. He obliges, and off goes the mouse, skittering into a corner. I open the door and point silently, and he trots into the house. Meanwhile the girl is howling her head off and body-slamming the door to get in. The boy obligingly adds his howls from the house to the wailing one left outside.

Ok...the little fellow survived, The boy is gentle, unlike the wailing one. He doesn't rend, tear, destroy. Within minutes I realize trying to gently urge the mouse out the other open door with a broom is futile, it's a hockey puck with feet. I pause, and then grab the grooming glove and gently scoop the little guy up. Out the other door I go to let him down carefully under a bush. He lays there, silently. I worry about him, but the wailing one has stopped and there are no more body slams against the door. She has probably knocked herself unconscious and will require a trip to the emergency vet. I close the door and get the girl. She bounces in, snubs me, and waits for me to open the door. I do so, secure in the knowledge they are both in the house, and go back out to check on the mouse. Gone! Whew. I go back into the house, to see two pair of blue eyes peering expectantly up at me for their cookies. Seriously? You're both lucky I don't thump you soundly on the head with the Wolf Cookie Jar, which howls whenever it opens, and brings wayward huskies running. But I lose...they are just too cute, and each gets a cookie.

I recently returned from a tour of Lancaster PA. It was a wonderful experience. The lush and rolling farmlands, dotted with cows, goats, horses, sheep; clothes strung out on a line, snapping merrily with every gusty breeze; swept porches and neat gardens...The Amish are an unique presence in our world, and add to the wonder and beauty of it. Their sense of community is intense. Any non-Amish is referred to as "English", but English folk are very grateful for their Amish neighbors. They say in bad times or when disaster strikes, the Amish are the first in and last out. They will spring to the aid of a neighbor, be it an Amish family or an English family.

We stopped at an Amish soft pretzel shop...heaven rolled into dough and butter. Among the best sights was an enterprising young gentleman with a road stand at the end of his farm's driveway. Amish buggy horses are re-shod every six weeks. He'd taken the old horseshoes, painted them quite creatively, and was selling them. He had a shock of brown hair tumbling over his eyes, and a smile that lit up his whole face. Kudos to him. The most unusual sight was a buggy on a tow truck. I kid you not.

The Amish are firmly rooted in family and community; they are adaptable, hard-working, and enterprising...I'm grateful I had the opportunity to experience a culture unlike my own.