And Whither Then? I Cannot Say

It is the last day of 2022 and (quite by coincidence) the 999^th post of the Niche of Time. I spent some time going over this blog last night, checking up on what had been done here and what I had recorded over the months, hoping to put together some kind of ‘end of the year’ assessments.

I finished re-organizing the Shadow Library and recorded more biographical memories. I posted some of my old poems and short stories. I did some work on ‘Bob’s Book 2’ and wrote one whole new short story (Kren) online. I emptied my Wish List on Amazon (at one time over 200 items!), both by getting stuff I had long wanted and by deciding what things I could really do without and deleting them. I accomplished a decades-long desire to have every Walt Disney Comics Digest ever printed. I go into the New Year only wanting one book that I know of: The Homecoming of Beorthnoth, by J. R. R. Tolkien, to be published at the end of March. Somehow I lived through the travesty that was The Rings of Power (how long ago that seems now!).

I had a couple of stents put in my legs and a steroid injection in my knee. I heard the joyous news that my niece Kaitlyn and her husband Ryan are expecting a baby boy. I went to the 100^th birthday party of my Aunt Doris. Both Queen Elizabeth II and Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI died, Benedict just this morning. Contrary to news that I heard and believed for months, my bus-driving friend Mr. Wade turned out to be alive. Dark Tidings Press returned to me the files and publication rights of A Grave on Deacon’s Peak; I could handle my own production arrangements if I want to, either by myself or with another company.

I head into the New Year with very little on my plate and with the decks mostly cleared. If I live long enough, I’ll turn sixty in July. What will be my driving impetus and what will be my goals? It’s a whole new world.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

 

Some time ago I made a list of the pets we had at Loop Drive over the years. Here it is.

1.Spotty (D-Terrier)
2.Fang (D-Poodle)
3.Fancy (D-Poodle)
4. Suzette (D-Poodle)
5. Lance Link (D)
6. Sheba (D-Doberman)
7. Polly (D)
8. Henri (Ornery H.) (D-Poodle)
9. Puss-Puss (C)
10. Rosemary (C)
11.Belladonna (C)
12. Merry (C?)
13. Pippin (C?)
14. Hickory (D-Chihuahua)
15. Bitsy (D-Chihuahua)
16. Polo (D-Chihuahua)
17. Petey (D-Chihuahua)
18. Ginger (D-Chihuahua)
19. Snap (D-Chihuahua)
20. Rocky (D-Rottweiler)
21. Baby (D-Chow)
22. Millie Chee (D-Boxer)
23. Minnie Chee (D-Pug)
24. Nippy (D)
25. Flea (D)
26.Kitty Kohn (C)
27. Smokey (C)
28. Fleafur (C)
29. Hoofer-poot (C)
30. Adolph Hamster
31. Blinky the Owl
32. Grimace the Duck

33. Blueboy the Parrot

34. Sylvester (C)

35. Fala (D)

Armadillos, 2 deer, a possum, a raccoon, a few squirrels, numerous snakes, fish, crawdads, gerbils, hamsters, a grackle, and a baby mockingbird.

That early run of poodles represented the by-products of Pat's Poodles, a little side-hustle that Nanny had Mom run for her. Spotty lasted an amazingly long time, from before I was in first grade until I was into college. Sheba was the one dog that was ever mine; she went to "live on Uncle David's farm". Rosemary was a cat I got from Mrs. Harris, my 4th Grade teacher; Belladonna was her daughter. Nippy and Flea were Millie's half-breed offspring. That run of Chihuahuas turned out to be the perfect dogs for Mom when she was grounded by her arthritis, being the right size to snuggle up next to her in her recliner. Pop's backyard garden had the dubious honor of being our pet graveyard (around the far edges); it was also the site where the enormous Rocky, when he passed, had first a burial mound and then a pyre, going to Doggie Heaven in a particularly Viking way. Sometimes I wonder if the present occupants of Loop Drive are ever haunted by our past animals.

Fast Away the Old Year Passes

 

This Wednesday (December 28^th) John and I got together to visit, and we decided (as I has some Christmas gift money burning in my pocket) to check out the few places where books are still available in town. I had no high hopes of any good finds (the pleasure of the brotherly company was the main point of the jaunt) but we came back with some surprisingly good acquisitions.

The first place we went was the Seguin Public Library used bookstore. It is generally a good place to find a decent mix of old and new volumes, and it did not disappoint. I left with a total of five books for $12, all in very good shape.

The Fantastic Art of Boris Vallejo (Del Rey/Ballantine Books)

Dreamquests: The Art of Don Maitz (Underwood/Miller)

First off there were a couple of slim Fantasy art books, The Fantastic Art of Boris Vallejo and Dreamquests: The Art of Don Maitz. These were not some of my especially favorite artists, but their work was everywhere on book covers and magazines when I was younger and looking at their work definitely conjures up a time. Vallejo’s statuesque blonde and her giant lizards were everywhere, on book and magazine covers, and even as a poster for a completely unrelated movie. Don Maitz’s picture of two vampiric brothers was on an issue of Eerie, which prompted my post yesterday on that subject; his artwork, too, was on covers and in magazines. Yes, they’re rather cheesy, but cheese can be a healthy part of a diet, especially aged cheese such as this.

The Thurber Carnival, by James Thurber ( Harper Perennial)

The Essential Tales of Chekhov, Edited by Richard Ford (Ecco Press/Harper)

Then there were a couple of classic volumes whose nice binding particularly caught my attention. Say what you will about the publishing industry, but a definite advance has been made in the binding of soft covers. The Thurber Carnival makes a good reading version compared to the old hardback I have (also purchased at the library bookstore). And because I have been branching out into Russian Literature in my old age, The Essential Tales of Chekhov looks like to be a handy sampler of his short stories.

The Book of the Dun Cow, by Walter Wangerin, Jr. (Harper & Row)

But the most unexpected prize found here was a hardback copy of The Book of the Dun Cow. This looks to be an original copy of the 1978 printing! The paper dust jacket is in surprisingly good shape for being over 40 years old. I’ve had a paperback copy since 1979; this is a definite upgrade.

The next place we visited was The Cranny, a small thrift store tucked away in the desolate wasteland of the old Seguin Crossroads Mall on the edge of town. The thick, swirling mass of leaves and litter that greeted us there did not bode well. We left that place empty-handed; there were a few things that lured (like a clumsily packaged audio version of The Hobbit on CD) but ultimately seemed not worth the risk.

Our visit to the Seguin Goodwill was a little more propitious. I found a hardback copy of Tolkien’s Roverandom with a somewhat damaged jacket that I insisted on buying for John, since he didn’t have a copy. I think it might very well be the first American edition. Anyway, I couldn’t leave that unlikely orphan behind. There were a couple of juvenile tie-ins to the Peter Jackson Tolkien films, but I was able to resist. But what I found next completely astounded me.

I have written lately about the first paperback copy of T. H. White’s The Once and Future King that I had back in middle school, the old tie-in to the musical Camelot. Here (as if summoned by the memory) was a copy of the identical book! It was in fairly good shape, too, for a 54-year-old paperback. I had forgotten the black spine and the photo on the back cover, and it looked a tad thinner than I recalled, but it was it. Well, for only $2 I had to have it. It seemed like fate.

And those, barring any unforeseen circumstances, are my last books of 2022. It has been an interesting time. It is odd; I have almost totally cleared my Wish List on Amazon, and I go into the New Year with few impending purchases on the horizon, and none that are urgent, always excepting the impending The Homecoming of Beorthnoth at the end of March.  But that’s in the almost unimaginable future; that’s next year.

Old Black and White Warren Magazines

 

I was fourteen, going on fifteen, at the time. It was 1978, the year of The Boys from Brazil, Damian: Omen II, Jaws II, Ralph Bakshi’s The Lord of the Rings, Magic, National Lampoon’s Animal House, Superman, and The Swarm. It was also the time of such horrors as Grease, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and The Wiz. It had been only a little while since Star Wars (just Star Wars then; no ‘A New Hope’) was out, and it was already working an alchemical change on all pop culture. Them’s was the growing years, and all us boys were casting around and expanding our interests.  Some of those interests for a while were a few Warren Magazines.

John was already buying their publication, Famous Monsters of Filmland. Inside we had often seen advertisements for back issues of other members of the Warren Magazine family, Eerie and Creepy, flogged by their horror host icons, Cousin Eerie and Uncle Creepy. So they were already on our radar when we found this on the racks:

Eerie #91 (March 1978)

As you can see that gigantic monster on the front bore more than a passing resemblance to Bakshi’s Gollum; just put a fish in his hand and change the perspective. That was enough to tip our interest and make us give it a try. Horror? Fantasy? Science Fiction? Worth a shot.

Eerie and Creepy were, of course, published every two months in black and white as a magazine, not a comic book, to signal their more ‘adult’ themes, meaning sex and graphic violence, including the chance of cartoon boobs now and then. Other than that, their tales were not much more advanced than old classics like Tales from the Crypt, but with slightly more modern attitudes. 

Eerie #93 (June 1978)

Eerie #94 (August 1978)

Eerie #96 (October 1978)

Creepy #105 February (1979)

For about a year we followed Eerie (there was a serial story about a cursed family that we were following), topped it off with one issue of Creepy, and then I bestowed my consumer dollars elsewhere (‘Weirdworld’ had lured me to the full-color graphic magazine Epic). Later we picked up the odd old copy of Eerie here and there. But that original run sank in deep enough to add a few quotes and phrases to the family store, like “Do you see it blight? Do you see it wither?” or “You just met ‘im, mouthpiece!”

There are recent circumstances that sparked these recollections, which I should explain more fully in my next post.

The Colour of Christmas

I remember only two childhood Christmases. This is because sometime between December of 1970 and December of 1971 our family became ensnared in the tentacles of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. Christmas was removed from my growing years like a sound baby-tooth inexplicably knocked from a healthy jaw. Eventually it gets replaced, but the growth of the whole row of teeth becomes affected, and in the meantime there is a frustrating gap.

The penultimate Christmas I recall must have been in 1969. That year the tree was set up in a corner of the dining room. We always had a real tree in those days, that filled much of the house with a fragrant scent and scattered needles everywhere. It was closely monitored and kept alive by regular doses of sugar water in its metal base, which was swaddled in white flocking scattered with glitter, to mimic snow. That was the year I remember us getting blocks, and the hooting Marx trains, and I think that was when I got that old Baloo ‘jiggler’, a wind-up toy that rocked and wobbled, in my stocking.  

Our stockings were a wonder. Mom got them from a lady who crafted them (from a kit, of course). They were a marvel of felt and sequin applique figures (Mike and I had Santas on ours, while John had a harlequin clown), and each one of the first three were marked with our names. By the time Kenny came along that wasn’t a thing, I guess, though he had his own hand-made stocking. They were our personalized ‘toe’ claiming land in the realm of Christmas, and they were filled with candy and small toys come Christmas day. They were hung on the cardboard chimney, which was set up that year (it must have been a mild winter) in front of the living room heater.

But my final childhood Christmas took place when I was in First Grade. That was the last year I could take part whole-heartedly in classroom holiday activities, the last year I could anticipate wrapped presents or festive events. Perhaps retrospect paints it with a brighter brush; perhaps if I had had the intervening years filled with ‘growing-up’ Christmases the enchantment would have faded over time.  But as it is, there is one moment, a single timeless instant that I have relived time and again as the season rolls around and that somehow strikes to the heart of true holiday wonder.

To set the scene: I was six years old. That year the Christmas tree was set up in the living room, in the corner by the TV. The cardboard chimney was almost opposite it, along the wall between living room and dining room. It was the evening of a late December day. Mom had plugged the tree in; otherwise, the space between the kitchen and the bedrooms was a shadowy cavern. Mom was in the kitchen, and we boys were in our room. For some reason (drink of water?) I had to get to the kitchen, so was passing, by myself, from one pool of light to another. Along the way I was unexpectedly arrested by wonder.

The familiar space of the living room had been changed into a dim crepuscular chamber. The soft, blinking lights on the tree winked on and off, twinkling on the tinsel, the multi-colored glass ornaments, even the glitter on the tree skirt. It glanced off the sequins on the stockings opposite, making subtle changing patterns. It was reflected in the living room mirror and in the darkened TV screen, turned off in a rare moment of stillness. The shadows in the far corners seemed merely a frame for the glowing colors, and as the tinted shade changed from red to green to blue, even the dreaded blind bogeyman of darkness seemed tamed under the gentle hand of Christmas.

I stopped, struck by the splendor of it all. I slowly sat down on the couch. There are moments in my life when I hear the silent whisper, “You shall always remember this, forever.” They are many times revelations of beauty. Sometimes they go deeper even than that, like a call from beyond the walls of the world. This seemed to be both.

Eventually I got up and went to the kitchen. But in some sense, I am still in that room, marveling at the colors and light shining in the darkness. That is what Christmas means to me, beyond all presents and Santa, beyond all feasts and music. It is a vision that has sustained me for many years, through some mighty bleak times. It is one reason why I will defend Christmas and its Lord against all detractors, against all debunkers, because for a moment, beyond all common glitter and rough, cheap trappings, I glimpsed a Mystery.

And so, Merry Christmas to us all.

Some Old Christmas Things

"Kren", Part 23: In Which We Part

 

“A wife.” Kren’s eyes went wide as he stared inward, rolling the thought around in his mind. It had never seemed possible, and so he had always shut the idea down in his head, especially when the Urge was on him in the spring and fall. It had been too painful to think about. But now at the mere hint the impulse leapt out of the darkness and washed away any lingering doubts he might have had.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” he announced, almost angrily. “I may not go with you, but I am leaving.”

Koppa laughed out loud. It rang strangely in the darkened room.

“You may have been raised among humans, but you’re a Morg through and through! Your folk are nothing if not positive about you want.”

Kren grinned.

“Then I should fit in pretty well then.”

“If not, I’ll bet you’ll make them fit around you soon enough.” The youth yawned hugely, then looked sheepish. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to hit the hay, if I’m to be out of town before the sun comes up. And if you’re leaving at the same time, you should get some rest, too.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Kren leapt to his feet. “I’ve got some packing to do first but let me show you to bed.” He strode over to what appeared to be cabinet doors set in the wall and pulled them open to reveal his own bed, hidden in the recess of the wall. “I hope you’re not afraid of closed spaces.”

Koppa got to his feet and moved sleepily towards the plain but comfortable-looking blankets.

“Believe me, I’ve slept in worse. Hmph.” He sat on the edge of the bed and paused before settling back. “Oh. Before I forget. Do you have anything like a small towel or a facecloth you could spare? Something clean and white would be best.”

“What? Oh yes, of course. Just a minute.” Kren turned to a cubby nearby and after a brief rummage came back with a linen napkin about two feet square in his claws. “Need something to lay your head on, eh? Will this do?”

Koppa accepted the cloth and held it up by its corners.

“Nothing so dainty.” He smiled. “Now catch!”

With a shake and a toss, the boy threw the cloth into the air with an impish smile. To Kren’s surprise it flashed into flames at the top of its arc, and against all common sense he flung out his paws to catch it before it could hit the floor.  

“Hey!” he barked, but the fire was out before he could even clap his hands over it. It was cold already, but he patted it automatically as if to extinguish any stray sparks. “What was all that?”

Koppa grinned.

“Open it up and take a look.”

Kren stared at the crumpled mass. There seemed to be scorch marks running all over it. He grabbed it by the edges and unfolded it, then gasped.

There, etched into the fabric, was a clear map, showing rivers, mountains, forests, and, of course cities, marked plainly by names in neat but miniscule letters. The space between Far Reach and Morg City seemed dauntingly wide when laid out so plainly, but not unattainable. He looked up at Koppa in awe.

“That’s for your journey, to help guide you on your way, as I won’t be with you. That should be the first thing you pack.” Koppa yawned even wider. “And now I really must sleep. It’s been a long day, and I think I’ve used more magic today than I have in weeks. Don’t worry; I’ll wake up by myself when I need to. It’s a little knack that I have. You pack, then get some sleep as well. You’ll need it. I’ll get us up to start out on our journeys. And now, good night.”

The young man drew his legs in and closed the cabinet doors himself, and Kren suddenly found he was, for all intents and purposes, alone with himself, his sudden purpose, and a magical map clutched in his hands. He sat stock still for a moment for the sudden strangeness of it all. Then he slowly folded the map, put it in his pocket, and began, almost in a trance, to gather his things in the dim flickering light of the dying fire.

It was if he had somehow been planning it all his life. Quietly, without hesitation, he took out his largest leather tool bag and emptied it until it held only the most basic and necessary instruments. Then he folded his two warmest sets of clothes and tucked them in on top. The weather would be growing colder from now on. He went to the jar of black water, emptied it, and dried the coins inside. They seemed a pitiful handful now, but it would have to do. He slipped the money into a leather bag and hid it away in the folds of his jerkin along with the tinderbox he took from the table. He cleaned out his cupboard and stowed the meager contents in with his clothes. He exhumed his shaggy old, hooded fleece jacket from the back of the closet, climbed into its stiff baggy folds, and grabbed his sturdy black walking stock from behind the door. He sank down into his deep chair before the dying embers under the mantlepiece and folded his paws together. Peering out of the hood, he felt like he was already in a tent in front of a campfire. Only then did he feel himself thinking.

Tomorrow, the town would wake up with no carpenter, their odd duck wandered from the chicken yard. For a brief moment he thought of Old Mosshide and considered whether he should leave some sort of note or testament, if only to say, “I quit.” Just as quickly he dismissed the thought. He didn’t feel like he owed the begrudging townspeople any explanations, and that the Hetman would have no problems subsuming the little house into his own holdings. Let them patch their own roofs and mend their own doors as best they could this coming winter. He was leaving nothing behind that he wanted to return to.

Despite his best efforts, he never did sleep, but wandered the dim pathways of his thoughts until, in the grey hour before dawn, the young wizard arose without a word. Kren silently offered him a harvest apple for breakfast. Before they left, the Morg undid his trousers and pissed in the fireplace, dousing any live embers that may have remained with a sighing hiss.

They left the little house on the outskirts of town and were almost immediately wandering into the untamed lands beyond its bounds, following a weedy, little-used footpath. It was only when it joined the ancient broken highway a mile away that the young wizard turned to speak to Kren.

“Well, here we must part,” he said quietly, offering his hand. “You to the West, and I to the East. Thank you for your hospitality.”

Kren took his hand and shook it firmly. The boy grinned wryly.

“I only hope I haven’t set you on a wild sort of quest.”

“If you did, I’m walking into it open-eyed.” Kren grinned back at him. “Good luck on your mission. Look me up when you return to Morg City.”

“I will that,” Koppa replied. He paused. “You do know how to forage in the wild, don’t you? Trapping, finding journey root, and all that?”

“Please,” Kren laughed. “I’m a country boy.” He looked around at the wild grasslands surrounding them, still shrouded in the morning fog. “Far Reach is only one step up from all this.”

“It is that.” Koppa smiled. “Well, fare well and good luck! May the Wanderer’s Blessing be on you!”

“That should mean a lot, I guess, coming for a wizard.”

Koppa shrugged.

“Not particularly. It’s all in Mog’s hands from now on, I suspect. May he guide your steps.”

“Fare well, Mr. Wizard. And thank you.”

Koppa nodded in acknowledgement, turned, and in a moment was lost in the fog. There was not even the sound of fading steps to suggest he had ever really been there.

Kren stared after him a moment, then hitched his bag over his shoulder, gripped his walking stock, and headed resolutely out the other way. As he stumped along the weathered, broken stones of the road, the sun slowly rose behind him, and his long shadow went striding before him. The growing light burned off the fog and showed fields glowing with late autumn gold, here and there dotted with clumps or single trees rising in scarlet and bronze. The air was fresh and coldly invigorating, and he felt, despite his lack of sleep, that he could go miles before he needed to rest. After a while he began rumbling cheerfully in his throat, a song that at last broke into words.

“Fiddle-dee, fiddle-dah,

The long road is beckoning

To wander through lands

That I never have seen.

Fiddle-dee, fiddle dah,

I leave without reckoning

To return to a home

Where I never have been.”

 

And so he went singing into the new day.

 

 

                                                                   First Draft finished 11:49 AM, 12/19/2022.

Taking a Little Break

 

I'm not going to be posting for a few days here, as I've been feeling pretty bad. Along with an overall tiredness, sore throat, cough, runny nose and phlegm, I can't seem to get much sleep. It could be a lot of things: some sort of allergy in the air or any number of seasonal viruses or just the result of cold air rasping my throat because of my sleep apnea. The only thing I can be fairly sure of is, is that it is not Covid-19, as Susan had me take a home test (although, of course, no test is ever 100% effective). Anyway, I'm going to take it fairly easy for a while. When I come back, I should have the conclusion of Kren. Should. 

It's Only Natural

 

Creative Writing 101