HALLOWEEN TREATS

I’ve just got in from my last Halloween storytelling session for this season — I calculate about 3,300 children in the past ten days have gobbled up those Stories for a Dark and Stormy Night. It’s my most heavily booked program because, without a doubt, creepy tales are the most popular among school students. Every year I’m treated to squeals of delight and screams of gleeful horror.  Even kids who say they don’t like to be scared seem to get a kick out of a little mild terror.

I especially appreciate the older kids — 4th through 6th grade — who insist that there’s nothing I can say or do to frighten them. They look me up and down, sneering and disdainful, and know FOR SURE that this middle-aged woman can’t possibly offer anything to give them goosebumps. “Go on,” they dare me. “Do your worst!” Imagine my pleasure then, when the simplest suspense tales freak them out. I watch their faces change: eyes widening, lower jaws dropping, heads shaking with disbelief. These youngsters have seen some of the worst possible movies…violent, disturbing, shocking movies, quite unsuitable (in my opinion) for children their age…so they think they’re untouchable, indestructible. But set up a horror story so they’re living it with you — something’s dragging itself up the stairs, you’re the victim, where can you hide?; that sweet-looking horse you’re riding is actually a goblin and he’s stealing you away forever; that weird little man your mother warned you about is going to boil you and eat you for supper — and those same children are eating out of your hands. They don’t need massacres and bloodshed when delectable tension and delicious anticipation will do it every time.

At the end of today’s program, I told a group of 5th graders that last year I’d sat on my front porch with a huge bucket of candy, dressed as a witch, and every time a child went by, I cackled, “Ha ha ha! Come and get some candy, if you dare!” Then I embellished the anecdote, saying that when the children were too fearful to collect the goodies, “I ate every Kit Kat myself! Ha ha ha!” For some reason, this tickled them, the idea of small kids being afraid to get treats. One boy, however, was as stunned as if I were telling him another ghost story. He kept shaking his head, trying to form words. Finally, he put up his hand. “Did you really do that?” I took on the witch persona. “I frightened them all away!” His hand was still up. “No, I mean, DID YOU REALLY EAT ALL THE KIT KATS?!”

Come and get some candy...

I LOVE READING!

To celebrate I LOVE READING!, I recently presented at Pillow Elementary, a wonderful multicultural school, and also my local. I pass it every day when I walk. After the event, I was thrilled to get a nice testimonial from the faculty, and along with it, a packet of Thank Yous from the students. I love reading notes from children I've presented to. Since I performed for them around February 14, some were combined with a Valentine message: extra joy! Among the precious comments, here are a few gems, a few of them bluntly honest, for your enjoyment.

You are nice and active.

Thank you so much for reading to us. I love you so much, Mrs. Nason.

Thank you for reading us a story. I like when the hugs started.
 
I like the two parts...when you sing a song and you make us laugh.
 
Thank you Ms. Nason for your two plays.
 
Thank you for the three stories.
 
To the Best Reader on earth. THE BEST!
 
Thanks for telling us those awesome stories and for acting it out. Really, those stories were cool and long.
 
THANK YOU, Ms. Nason. Also, since you're from the UK, have you seen the Mallard steam locomotive? It looks like this (great drawing of a train). Answer here: ______________

Pillow Elementary Principal and PTA representative

Inappropriate Laughter

Last Tuesday, I worked long and hard. At my computer by 7:45am, I completed a detailed online review for a local business, a tight, pithy anecdote for a grant report, a short story, and an edit of another short story. I updated my Texas Public Library email list (15 Excel pages, nearly 600 entries) and sent introductory emails, some of them personalized, to half the people on that list. I took only a coffee break, lunch break, tea break and chose to forego walking and yoga so as to feel smug and self-righteous at the end of the day. Which came at 6:45pm after nearly 11 hours of labor. Now I wait for the piles of cash to roll in, right? Welcome to the life of the self-employed arty farty. And if it sounds as if I'm blowing my own trumpet, well, so be it, but it's really more like self-encouragement, balancing the days where I do nothing, sweet Fanny Adams, sweet f*** all. Such days also play a huge part of the life of self-employed artist.

Anyway, at 6:45 p.m. all I could think about was WINE. I need WINE. There was nothing fitting that description in the house, unless you count an aged box of red, now answering to the name of vinegar. Better nip 'round to Fresh Plus, our nice, local, expensive corner store and get a bottle. "Need anything?" I called as I departed. "Beer!" was the response. "Sierra Nevada!"

I didn't look in a mirror before leaving home which, since turning fifty, (this is how I avoid saying, "as I approach sixty...") tends to be a mistake, especially when I've been alone all day with only cats for company. I thought about that as I walked towards the store and caught sight of my bedraggled self in the sliding glass door. "Did I brush my hair this morning?" I speculated. "Did I brush my teeth?"

I knew what I wanted and went straight there. No Sierra Nevada available in the Beer Cave so I got a 6-pack of Shiner IPA. The Sauvignon Blanc I selected was within my reach price-wise, but just out of it, height-wise. I beckoned a tall shop assistant who was happy to help this short, elderly woman. That's not how I'd describe myself, you understand; it's how this young man looked at me...with a look completely void of any kind of sexual interest, closer to that special brand of old folks' home flirting, where young men feel safe flattering the ladies because, well, clearly, no one's going to misinterpret it and think that they might actually be interested.

I made my way to the front, picking the checkout with two young men (high school? college?), one at the register, the other bagging purchases. They didn't acknowledge my presence as a human, but they did notice my purchase of two different types of alcohol. Seemed to me they gave each other a side glance that meant, "Whoa...a boozer..." To defuse the situation, I smiled and said, "Guess what I'm doing tonight!" They looked up for the first time, staring, frozen. Finally the cashier said, "Er, I dunno. What are you doing?" I put on a swagger and an appalling Texan accent. "Drankin'..." I said. No response. Complete blank. Their bug-eyes and slack jaws were so precious, so funny, that before I could stop myself, I released a loud cackle. Both lads literally jumped back, which made me laugh again. I fumbled my bags off the counter so I could escape without further display of weird. I was still laughing as I walked to my car, still laughing aloud, I mean. I imagined them telling their friends, "Served this crazy old bag lady today..." And you know what? As I curled up with my glass of crisp, citrusy New Zealand white in front of Finding Your Roots, it dawned on me that, after 11 hours alone at a computer, I probably fit that description rather well. And I'm not entirely ashamed to admit it. They should be grateful I wasn't still wearing my panda pajamas.

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY IN LIBYA 1985

What does the average woman expect to receive on St. Valentine's Day? Flowers, chocolates, and champagne come to mind, naughty knickers perhaps. At the very least, a card.

I haven't lived in Great Britain for ages, and haven't been there on that special occasion for thirty years so I can't be sure how it goes down in the 21st century, but back in my day (I'm old) you could count yourself really lucky to get a bunch of daffs or a box of chocs. You were much more likely to get just a Valentine's card, and these were sent anonymously--even if you were courting or married, your card wouldn't be signed personally. "Someone loves you!" or "Guess who?" All sorts of trouble could ensue if a married person received more than one card because, well, who the hell sent the second one? I once stirred things up when I sent my boyfriend two cards as a lark: an "anonymous" card which was obviously from me, and a cheeky second card ostensibly from someone else. He dismissed my card immediately as duly expected, and spent the whole day waxing fascinated by the concept that "someone else" was keen on him. Moron.

In the mid 80s, I lived in North Africa--Tripoli, to be precise. St. Valentine's Day, as you might imagine, was not big in Libya. There were no Valentine's Day specials: no red and sparkly balloons, no chocolate-coated strawberries, no scarlet, frilly undies in shop windows, teasing panting lovers to splurge their well-earned dinars on their partners. And there were certainly no romantic, whimsical, kissy-kissy cocktails on Tripoli restaurant menus. If you found your regular bread, sweaty Emmental cheese and a coupla tins of sardines, you'd count yourself blessed.

This meant that on St. Valentine's Day 1985, my fellow secretaries and I were feeling a bit sorry for ourselves. Some of the ladies still had boyfriends in the UK, and not a single one of those sorry twits appeared to have remembered the event. The overseas snail-mail came and went without a tell-tale red envelope. Actually, I'm not sure that red envelopes were the thing back then, but you know what I mean--an envelope that spoke of LOVE. Those of us with boyfriends among the British expatriate community in Tripoli held our breath for a while...until it was obvious that nothing was going to arrive to lift our spirits...I mean, we didn't want to die. I sat at my desk wallowing in self-pity, and when Jackie, Sally, and Janice passed by my office, we all grumbled at our misfortune. The following thought did cross my mind, "What are you expecting? Hand-delivered home-made cards? Really? From Englishmen? From geologists?" but I wasn't prepared to allow that thought to influence my self-righteous indignation.

When my boyfriend, Steve, eventually phoned me from his office on the other side of downtown Tripoli, it was clear that he'd no idea it was Valentine's Day. I soon sorted him out. "How could you forget?" I said, "How could you?" though of course I was fully aware that unless a note had been pinned to his forehead with a thumbtack, there was absolutely no way he'd remember, and even then, it probably wouldn't have occurred to him to have done anything. He was English, a geologist, and an ex-public school boy. Nothing I knew of his upbringing had led me to expect a romantic gesture of any sort ever. And yet, and yet....

I told him that the secretaries were upset, particularly the ones who regularly hung out with the geologists, and that he was to find a way to correct the situation, and quickly.

About half an hour later, my fax machine clicked and whirred, and I've attached what came through. When I called Steve to acknowledge its receipt, he told me I was to photocopy it and pass it around. Please note, I am not first on the list so either Steve didn't create this masterpiece himself, or he liked Jackie more than he liked me.

As my mother would've said, "Well, darling, it's better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish."

I suppose so. But only a little.

Happy Valentine's Day from some English Geologists

STEALING BABY JESUS

After months of writing and several weeks of detailed rehearsal with my director, Michael Stuart, the show opens tonight at 8:00 PM at the Hyde Park Theatre. I know many of my blog friends don't live in Austin and will therefore be unable to join us, but I hope you'll be there in spirit! I'm eagerly anticipating a big happy house full of enthusiastic, smiling faces for my opening night, but it won't matter...either way, I'm excited and truly honored at a chance to share my personal Christmas stories.

Trevor Lemoine's wonderful poster

Suddenly...Mum's 90th Birthday

Today would've been my mother's 90th birthday. She died suddenly in 2007. She dropped dead of heart failure as she reached for her meditation chair, prayer books in hand. "She wouldn't have felt a thing," the doctor confirmed. It was a real shock. Although she'd had a bit of an issue with high BP in her last few years, she hadn't been sick, had not, in fact, ever suffered from illness of any kind. She was a vegetarian, never smoked, exercised regularly (walking, hiking, occasional halfhearted aerobics and isometrics) and drank alcohol every day, in the form of a gin martini, the only kind. She called it "a ruin" after the well-known English name for gin, "Mother's Ruin." Happy hour in Mum's house was legendary.

Since her death, I've thought often about the words, "died suddenly" because, when one mentions that a relative has shuffled off in that way, there's always a distinct reaction. It goes like this: "What a good thing she never suffered," or "Thank heavens she passed away without a long-term illness," or even, "You're lucky she didn't drag on for years and years like my [fill in the blank]."

Of course, I'm glad that she never suffered and passed away without being sick and didn't drag on for years, but it took a while for me to feel that way. For ages, I was heartbroken that I never had closure, never had a chance to say goodbye, never got to force one last awkward hug on that beloved round-shouldered body. In fact, our last contact was dreadful, one of those phone conversations you wish you could snatch out of the ether, and do again.

"Hello, Berni. It's Mum."

"Hello Mum. How are you?"

"What, dear? It's a bad line, I can hardly hear you."

"The line seems okay at this end, Mum. Are you holding the receiver up to your ear?
"Pardon?"

"Mum, have you got your hearing aid in?"

"You'll have to speak up, Berni, I can barely hear you."

Me, shouting: "How are you, Mum?"

"Pardon?"

Me, shouting: "Are you holding the receiver up to your ear? Perhaps your hearing aid battery has gone."

Mum, laughing: "I'm sorry, darling. I'm starting to think that my hearing aid battery has gone."

Rattle, rustle, crackle, as she checks her hearing aid.

Me, laughing: "Mum, why don't you call me back in a minute."

Mum: "It's no good, dear, I can't hear you. Why don't you call me back in a minute."

Me, laughing hysterically: "But Mum, you called me..."

Line goes dead. I wait two minutes to see if she's going to try again before re-dialing. My call goes straight to her voicemail.

See what I mean? Not an ideal way to bid a final farewell to your favorite person in the world. But I must say, what strikes me in recent years is that this conversation ended in giggles, and if there's one thing we always had plenty of in our household, it was humor. We weren't obviously affectionate or demonstrative, but we did know how to make each other shriek with hilarity. With that in mind, I wish you HAPPY 90TH BIRTHDAY, MUM! And thanks for keeping me laughing until the very end. 

 

Praying for the Mantis

On my front flowerbed this morning, I spotted a tiny praying mantis, and right alongside it, hanging from another leaf, the ghost of a mantis, which I presume is its recently shed coat. As I watched, a large moth landed on the next stalk. I wondered if the mantis was praying that the moth would alight a bit closer. I prayed that it would--I wanted to see how the mantis would go about preparing its meal, as the moth was three times the size of the mantis, and could easily crush its head, just by sitting on it.

Still, it put me in mind of an incident that took place in Tripoli, Libya, just after I'd moved into a tiny villa in the residential area known as Georgimpopuli. In lieu of a Throwback Thursday photo, I thought I'd share that little anecdote.

My Austin front yard, June 2015. Praying mantis on flower stem in the centre. Ghost mantis on the right.

 "On Graham's heels arrived a couple of oil company workers to spray my little villa for pests. When they'd finished and I was showing them out, I noticed an enormous bright green insect on the front porch wall. It was at least four inches long, with a three-foot wing span...all right, the wings spanned about four inches, but that was scary enough for me. I grabbed one of the men by the arm and shrieked so loudly, his eyes nearly popped out of his head; poor fellow had no idea what was wrong. The language barrier didn't help, but with me jumping up and down, gesticulating wildly at the bug on the wall, he finally worked out what I wanted. He transferred the creature into a nearby flowerbed. "Grazie," I said, "Molte grazie!" I moved a bit closer to observe it. "It is beautiful," I said, pointing to the insect sitting innocently on the ground, "but I feel much better now it's ten feet away from me!" 

Unfortunately, I was misunderstood. One of the workers trod on it with his black leather loafer. I didn't want it to die; it was a splendid bug! Bloody language barrier. After they'd gone, I took a good look at it lying dead and realized that it was a praying mantis. I'd never seen one before; it was incredible. It really did look as if it was praying. I still feel guilty for having a living thing murdered. Mind you, had it been a spider, I'd have pulverized it with a shovel, just to be sure.