Add a Bit of Spooky to Your Christmas

I’m sharing a little story that I originally posted on Medium a couple of years ago. It’s a cautionary tale about having too much curiosity about the presents under the tree. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Do not Open Until

They were the ugliest ornaments he’d ever seen. “Are these supposed to be nutcrackers?” Adam held up one of the little carved wooden soldiers. Instead of the bright red of the traditional nutcracker, this one had a coat painted a dull maroon, the shade of an old scab. A scraggly beard adorned his face, as though the fellow had been on the run, without time to shave.

“They’re Santa’s soldiers.” Luanne, Adam’s girlfriend, grabbed hold of his wrist and scooped the figurine from his grasp. “This one’s Tom Toss. See, he has a little spear.

The soldier carried a long stick with a sharpened metal point. The glow from the living room fireplace glinted off the tip of the weapon. Too sharp, Adam thought, for something that children might handle.

“Santa’s soldiers?”

“Yes,” Luanne answered, “they guard the tree on Christmas Eve, to make sure no one snoops at the presents.” She gave him a pointed look, as though she suspected he’d be down here in the deep night, shaking boxes and disrupting the wrapping paper.

“A Christmas tradition, then.” Adam chuckled, hoping his laughter would cover up the disgust he felt looking at the ornaments. There were three more in the gold-foiled box. The remaining figures rested on a cushion of cotton, white like snow. Like the one with the spear, they all wore tall black hats and held their wooden arms stiffly at their sides. Luanne hung Tom Toss on the tree, then handed the box to Adam.

“I’ve had this one since I was a child. My grandmother gave him to me.” She lifted a chunky, round-bellied soldier to the Christmas tree. He carried a sledge hammer tucked under his arm. His coat was colored a mottled green, like camouflage. “Adam, meet Knockabout,” Luanne said.

“And this one?” Adam leaned over the box and brushed his finger across the face of a figure dressed in yellow. Unlike its square-jawed companions, this one had a pointed chin. The mouth gaped open, displaying rows of sharp teeth. “Ow!” Adam drew back his hand. A drop of blood welled up on his fingertip.

“Careful, that one’s Biter.” Luanne laughed. “And this one’s my favorite. He’s Pow Pow Boy.” This toy soldier was shorter than the others. His face, with its pug-nose and dots of paint to resemble freckles, resembled Luanne’s. A pair of boxing gloves covered his fists.

Adam, squeezing his injured finger, studied the tree as Luanne finished decorating. The four soldiers, posted at different points among the branches, glared from amongst the twinkling lights and silver garland.

“Remember, no peeking!” Luanne shook her finger at him. She wore a smile, but the past year of experience with the woman had taught Adam this was only the appearance of joviality. His girlfriend was dead serious about the snooping.

“Scouts honor, I’ll be nowhere near the tree tonight.” He wondered what she’d gotten him. Nothing too fancy, he hoped. Adam’s present to his girlfriend was a bottle of her favorite perfume and a gift card to the neighborhood coffee shop.

Luanne had carefully organized their Christmas celebration. Ice skating, caroling, shopping, viewing holiday lights—the whole parade of holiday events. She kept a calendar, with specific dates blocked out for each activity. The whole thing felt more like a ritual than the spontaneous enjoyment of the season.

At last they settled here, presents wrapped and fireplace blazing, in her family’s cabin. Tomorrow, Christmas Day, the rest of the clan would arrive. Luanne insisted they wait until Christmas Eve to set up the tree. On the way here, they’d driven to four different lots until they found a specimen Luanne deemed acceptable. “It has to be a Douglas Fir,” she said. “That’s what we always have.”

The sap that oozed from the cut trunk reminded Adam of bodily fluids. He considered it gruesome that this tree had only recently been a living thing, and now it was stuck here, festooned with gaudy tinsel and baubles. Like hanging ornaments on a corpse.

“Here’s to our first Christmas together.” Luanne lifted her glass of mulled wine in a toast.

Adam clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers,” he said. The first and the last, he thought. Adam planned to break up with her after Christmas, once a suitable amount of time had passed. Only an asshole would dump someone during the holidays. There was Valentine’s Day coming up in February, so he’d better make a clean split in early January.

An unfamiliar noise woke Adam in the middle of the night. Luanne dozed beside him, her arm flung out on top of the covers, her lips puffing out with each soft breath. He eased from the bed and listened for the sound. He heard it again, from the living room, a rustle and tap as though someone were knocking on the window.

Easing from the bed, he crept out of the room. They’d left the lights on the tree plugged in, and the living room lit up in flashes of red, blue, green. Outside, the wind buffeted the shrubbery lined across the front of the cabin. Adam peered out the window, his breath misting the cold glass. A branch skittered against the window, and Adam muttered, “That must have been it,” as he rubbed his palm to clear his view of the front porch.

A dark form lifted from the pines at the edge of the clearing. It floated over the cabin, the moonlight casting an ink-stain shadow on the snow. Adam started, before deciding the dark thing was an owl, hunting for dinner. He stepped back, forgetting the tree and the presents behind him.

One foot knocked over a stack of gifts wrapped in red and white striped paper, and as he bent to grab the pile, he elbowed the tree. The ornaments jingled and one of the nutcracker soldiers fell to the hardwood floor with a clack. This would have been bad enough, but Adam, unbalanced, stepped on the little figure.

“Oh! Crap!” He picked up the soldier and hung it back on the tree. The figure’s arm, the one securing the hammer, lay broken next to a package wrapped in green paper dotted with penguins. Had he been wearing shoes, the damage would have been worse. In the morning he’d confess to Luanne and offer to glue the arm back in place.

“I’m sorry, Knockabout,” Adam whispered. “We’ll have you right as rain soon.”

As he rearranged the gifts under the tree, he tried to remember the exact placement of each box. Maybe if he put them all back like they were before, Luanne wouldn’t notice the broken arm until later. He could blame her little brother, or maybe they’d bring the family dog, always a convenient scapegoat.

The last box was covered in white paper with glitter stars. The tag read “To Adam, From Luanne.” After he listened to make sure his girlfriend still slept, he picked up the box and shook it. Something shifted lightly inside. It was slightly larger than a paperback book, long and thin. Maybe it held the Patek Philippe watch he’d been lusting after. Adam felt a brief pang of guilt. If it was the watch, he’d have to stick around through Valentine’s Day at least. He tucked the package back under the tree.

Thirsty, he stopped in the kitchen for a quick drink before climbing back into bed. He was standing at the sink, a tumbler of water lifted to his mouth, when he felt a sharp stab on his ankle.

“Hey!” Adam shook his foot. A tiny mark, like a pinprick, leaked a bit of red down the side of his foot. Something small and dark scurried behind the kitchen door. A rat? He grabbed the door and flung it closed. Tom Toss, the toy soldier with the spear, stood there, only this time he wasn’t carrying the weapon.

“What the…!” Adam jumped. The soldier dashed past him, back to the living room. Adam turned to follow – certain he hallucinated the image. It had to be a rat, one that ran around on two legs. He’d check the tree, make sure all the ornaments were still there.

Adam made it halfway across the living room floor when Biter latched onto his calf. With a scream, Adam beat at the nutcracker until it fell away, tearing off a chunk of flesh as it went. Panting, Adam limped toward the bedroom. He’d lock himself inside, away from these monsters.

When he started down the hallway, a tall shadow rose to block the path. It was the one-armed Knockabout, a seriously pissed Knockabout, who had grown somehow, until the top of his black hat brushed the ceiling. He raised his hammer and Adam turned to race back down the hall.

He bounced against the walls, Knockabout’s thundering steps at his heels. The kitchen! He’d run into the kitchen where there were knives and things he might use as weapons. Adam spun around the corner and ran smack into Pow Pow Boy.

“No!” He collided with the toy soldier, now the size of a small boy. They fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Adam struggled to his feet as the boxer landed a glancing blow to his side. “Oof!” Adam lost his breath with a gasp. He crawled into the kitchen. Where were the knives? Frantic, Adam yanked open drawers, sending the contents clashing and crashing to the floor. At last, his hand closed around the hilt of a sturdy butcher knife.

“All right, you bastards,” he called, waving the knife. Pow Pow Boy appeared in the doorway and stood there, gloved fists lowered. Biter and Tom Toss, grown to the size of cocker spaniels, tip-tapped up behind the boxer. Where was Knockabout? And where was Luanne? Surely the racket would have awakened her. Unless this was all a dream, a side effect of too much mulled wine.

“Come on then, let’s have it,” Adam said. He’d taken a step toward them when he heard the patter of bare feet approach from the hall.

“What’s all this?” Luanne clutched her robe and stood in the doorway, beside Pow Pow Boy. “What happened to poor Knockabout?”

“Those things…” Adam said, pointing with the knife. He couldn’t explain, couldn’t find the words. If he pinched himself, would he wake up at last?  

“You were snooping!”

“It’s not like that.” Adam had a moment, where he wondered why Luanne was not frightened or even curious why her toy soldiers had come to life. The moment passed, Luanne nodded to the gang, and then they were upon him.

******

He woke to light streaming in through the living room window, his field of vision partly blocked by evergreen needles. Had he fallen asleep underneath the tree? Then Luanne’s face loomed into view, impossibly large.

“There now, good morning,” she said. He tried to reply, but his mouth didn’t work. His jaws clacked together uselessly. Something was wrong with his arms – they were frozen at his sides. He clutched the knife from the night before, and suddenly it all came back to him.

“I think I’ll call you Slash Dash, my new special ornament.” Luanne smiled. Adam tried to scream, his wooden jaws stretched wide as she said, “We’ll have a lovely Christmas together forever.”

Join Hands Again

In gratitude for the love we are to receive

I love pecan pie. Yesterday, our realtor gifted his clients with Thanksgiving pies. We bought our house two years ago, in the middle of a crazy market, when investors were slinging cash like the Monopoly banker. Without his expertise, we wouldn’t have been able to find a place to call home. For that, we are grateful to Kreg Hall. The pie is a bonus. A large bonus, as I am the only one in our household who likes or can eat pecan pie. To make it last, I’ll freeze portions and enjoy it during the winter months. Each time I sit down with coffee and a slice of pecan pie, warm from the microwave, I’ll lift a fork in gratitude for the blessings we have and the good people in our life.

Below is a post from 2017. I wanted to share it again, I hope you enjoy reading it.  

 

Join Hands, Give Thanks

I lived through two decades before I discovered that there were people in the world who made dressing with stale bread cubes instead of fresh cornbread. My oldest sister’s second husband, the nice one, was from somewhere up North. New York, I think. He had dark, pomaded hair swept up and back and he smiled and spoke with an accent I had only ever heard on television. He made a bread stuffing with oysters. I forgave him because it was delicious, each mouthful a feast of earthy black pepper mixed with the salty ocean taste of oysters. Home from college, my mother volunteered me to drive the two of us up to Malakoff, Texas, where my sister and her new husband had retired to life by the lake. In those days before GPS, I got lost following my sister’s handwritten directions. We arrived late, but to a feast still warm and laid out on their Formica topped kitchen island. I wish I had asked him for the recipe for that oyster dressing.

My mother made her dish the Southern way, with cornbread. She used white corn meal, soft as sand, with a bit of flour, scooped up and sprinkled in like snow. Baking soda and baking powder for leavening, for we all need incentive to rise. Buttermilk to mix, salt and bacon drippings for flavor, then all poured into her largest cast iron skillet, warmed on the stove so the crust will brown first. It came out like a pale yellow moon and filled the kitchen with the warm, sweet scent of corn. For the dressing she mixed in celery, onions, broth, and enough sage to repel evil spirits.

When I was young, we traveled to my grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving. Not over the river or through the woods, but past the lake and along Highway 380 the 15 miles to the town of Farmersville. My mother brought her cornbread dressing and a pie or two as her contribution to the meal. I held the warm pan of dressing on my lap where I sat in the slick vinyl backseat of our 1970 Oldsmobile and tried not to drool on the foil covering the pan. My grandmother’s wood frame house had a tiny living room decorated with an autographed photograph of a famous televangelist, before the fall. She sent him money and prayed for healing by laying her hands on her Chroma color television while he preached. The children, including anyone under the age of 18, were banished to the back porch. We fought over metal folding chairs and balanced our plates of food on our knees while we fended off the horde of feral cats living in my grandmother’s yard. The cats were only slightly outnumbered by my cousins.

Some years we visited my father’s family, where my aunts made their dressing and gravy seasoned with the chunks of turkey heart, liver, and gizzard that came packaged and concealed inside a store bought turkey. The first time I cooked a turkey I didn’t realize there was this hidden prize inside. I found them after, steamed and tucked under the skin at the front of the turkey, where his neck would have been if it weren’t shoved up into the body cavity. The neck was roasted too, because I didn’t know there was a second, secret scrap part buried inside my turkey.

My first husband was from Missouri, and the bread stuffing his mother made was moist, but thick, and had to be scooped out in chunks. My father-in-law, an honest, hard-working mechanic and assistant Boy Scout leader, led the prayer each year, insisting that we all stand before the table and join hands. You haven’t really experienced Thanksgiving gratitude until you’ve had to convince a squirming toddler to stay still during a ten minute blessing while the aroma of roasted meat and cinnamon spiced pumpkin wafts over you in a moist cloud of steam you can taste.

My mother stopped cooking a turkey for Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, when it was just the two of us left at home. She would roast a chicken instead, and make her cornbread dressing. I never saw her consult a cookbook. She cooked from memory, measuring out ingredients to taste except when she was making a pie or a cake. After she moved into a nursing home, I found a cookbook tucked away in a box she had stored in her laundry room. The book, All About Home Baking, had penciled notes in the margins and tucked inside the front cover, scraps of lined paper with recipes written in her delicate, looping cursive. Brittle, yellowed pages from a 1963 calendar fluttered out like falling leaves when I turned the pages of the book.

I roast a turkey every year, even when there are just one or two guests and my vegetarian husband at the table. This year I’m cooking both turkey and a ham. I’ll make cranberry relish from fresh cranberries and oranges and add so much sugar that it passes for jam. We’ll have pumpkin pie and a minced meat pie like my mother used to make, even though no one but me will eat it. It is a deliberate luxury on my part to have a whole pie to myself. My husband, Andrew, will mash potatoes so they come out just the way he likes them, a little bit creamy and with a few tiny lumps. When he leaves the kitchen I will sneak in more butter and salt to the dish.

I don’t cook my mother’s cornbread dressing. I’ve fallen from grace and into the boxed, instant variety but at least it’s the cornbread version. I’ll make traditional green bean casserole with crispy fried onions on top and a spinach rice casserole from a recipe my aunt gave to me. I don’t put marshmallows on the yams, instead I’ll serve them with a pecan streusel topping like my ex-husband’s mother, my first mother-in-law, made.

The guests at the table, the cooks in the kitchen, and the fellowship changes, just as the feast stays the same. I touch my past as my hand stirs the pot, preps the bird, and kneads the bread. I bow my head in silent thanks and join hands with all, even those who are absent from the table. Join hands, bow heads and give thanks. Give thanks for the love we are all about to receive.

From the left: My mom, my maternal grandmother, and my aunt

A Blessing of Beasts

Welcome to the wildlife

Green anole – photo by Andrew Shaw

We have been without a pet for almost three years. Our nerite snail slunk across the rainbow bridge shortly after we moved into our new home. The five gallon aquarium where he lived now sits empty inside the garden shed. Taking care of an animal requires a burden of care that we are not ready to assume. Not while we have the caretaking responsibility for Andrew’s mother. We were fortunate to buy a house already equipped with handrails and wood floors, wide doorways and an extra bedroom. But we found the best blessing in our backyard.

We have frequent visitors to our garden.

Myrtle the box turtle – photo by Andrew Shaw

This is the second year we have been visited by a box turtle. Last year, after confirming her gender, we christened her Myrtle. Female turtles have brown eyes and their shells do not have a flare at the bottom. Males tend to have red eyes and flared shells. Box turtles are not endangered, but they are listed as “vulnerable” as their habitats are shrinking. If you find one in your yard, don’t try to relocate them as they are territorial. Andrew and I believe Myrtle lived here near our creek long before we met with a realtor. We are happy to see her when we find her strolling through our flowers.

Green anole enjoying the bugs – photo by the author

A multitude of little green lizards lurk among the plants. We call them all Jake. They are most likely all related and don’t seem to mind sharing that moniker. If I approach slowly they will allow me to offer them a dried meal worm. This, I feel, is an adequate reward for their hard work clearing the insects from our vegetables.

Small toad – photo by the author

After a late summer rain finally soaked our yard, I found dozens of very tiny toads hopping across the mulch. Each one is barely the size of my thumbnail but they have an impressive jump when startled. I can empathize. The toad in the image above can be found in the center of the bottom third of the photo. If you can’t find him here is another pic of one I found on our walkway.

Very tiny toad – photo by the author

As summer ends, we keep the fallen leaves and brushy plants in the garden. Less work for us and more places for our wildlife to shelter when winter arrives. The lantana in particular has been a colorful home to bunnies and a draw for butterflies and bees.

Lantana – photo by the author

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.” –John Muir

Cicada shell – photo by the author

Gardening in the Apocalypse

Bunnies and humans are a greater threat than zombies

Our garden – guarded by metal chickens and a t-rex

Here in Texas we are finishing another week of 100 plus degree temperatures. So far the tropical plants – the hibiscus, okra, wax mallow, and the Rose of Sharon – are thriving. But not all plants, nor all humans, are designed to survive in a climate akin to a blast furnace. While the mallow gang laugh at August, my tomatoes have wilted, the peppers gave up their blooms, and the vining plants dried up and crumbled off their stakes. Somehow the asparagus continues to force out new sprouts. I planted the roots two years ago, so next year will be the year of spears. The ferns have overgrown their little patch, hanging over the sidewalk so they brush against me when I wander past. I can’t resist running my hands through the soft tops and whispering to them, “Soon.”

The asparagus patch

Right after the asparagus began shooting up spears, I noticed that overnight the plants would disappear. Rabbits, I discovered, like the taste of fresh asparagus. The greater insult in this was that I could not yet harvest the spears for my own meals. Our solution was to install a short fence around the plot. Not so tall that I couldn’t reach over it, but tall enough that the bunnies could not. Eventually I enclosed most of my plants in some sort of fence. It has given me a new respect for the battle between Farmer McGregor and Peter Rabbit.

Black-eyed peas and sweet potatoes in pots

My parents always had a small garden and our summers were filled with fresh vegetables. My main motivation for growing my own food has always been an appreciation for the taste of home grown tomatoes and okra. The restful meditation that comes from working with plants is a much enjoyed side benefit.

Like many people, I felt an extra urgency to produce my own food during the Covid lockdowns, when we dealt with shortages. Back then, I remember trying to order seeds online and coming up empty with each click. Mostly I grew radishes and hot peppers on our apartment balcony, not exactly enough to sustain two grown adults. Since buying our house two years ago, I’ve expanded to large pots, grow bags, and some space in our flower beds. The dry Texas summer has turned our front lawn to brown straw, and I believe I am close to convincing Andrew to till it all under and plant corn.

One of the scariest movies I ever watched was Interstellar. It wasn’t marketed as horror, but science fiction. The plot revolved around a team of scientists who were searching for alternate planets that would support life, since earth had undergone so much ecological damage that world wide famine had resulted. This was a little too close to reality. I love horror, but I’d rather watch and read stories about zombies, demonic serial killers, and haunted houses. In those cases, I can close the book, exit the theater, turn off the television and reassure myself that those things are safely secured away from my own world. However, I only have to step outside in the blazing summer heat to imagine global ecological destruction. In that case, I always think of George Carlin’s words – “The planet will be here for a long, long, LONG time after we’re gone, and it will heal itself, it will cleanse itself, ’cause that’s what it does. It’s a self-correcting system. The air and the water will recover, the earth will be renewed.”

Okra blossom

While we wait for the ecological apocalypse, the black-eyed peas and sweet potatoes thrive in their pots and don’t seem to mind the heat. Bunnies are not welcome in the garden. Birds and squirrels are okay, because they occasionally do their own cultivating – like the sunflowers that sprout around the bird feeder or the peanut plant that emerged from a flower pot of peas. It’s all good because my favorite color is green.

Peanuts planted by the squirrels

Brain Like a Junk Drawer

Photo by the Author

My memories are fragile as porcelain. I long to hold on to every second, recall and relive each happy moment before they slip and shatter, like my coffee mug this morning. Andrew and I were enjoying the view from our back porch, when I went to toss a peanut to a visiting squirrel. My right hand lobbed the treat, and my left hand joined in the motion, throwing instead my Galveston souvenir coffee mug to a confused and startled squirrel. The mug tumbled from my grip and broke into pieces on the concrete.

Photo by the author – Galveston Seawall

We visited Galveston after we married and before Covid. I can’t recall the year unless I look it up. Never good at remembering dates, I rely more and more on my phone, calendars, sticky notes. The desk in my office holds a rainbow of colored squares. I keep lists – groceries to buy, books to read, movies to watch, places to visit. This method works until I can’t decide whether “Luce” is a book, movie, or shorthand for lettuce.

The author – trying on a hat at a shop in Galveston

“I’ll buy you another mug,” my husband said. “I bet I can find one on eBay.”

“No. It won’t be the same.” How to explain that the kitchsy souvenir held not just my morning coffee, but memories of strolling along the seawall. “We will have to go back to Galveston.”

I pushed the broken bits aside. No more physical remembrance, but I could look at the pictures we took on that trip if I wanted to recall the way the golden hour lit up the historic cemetery we toured.

Photo by the author – the Broadway Cemetery in Galveston

I have begun a journal detailing each trip we take – the towns we visit, shops where we find the best bargains, fun things we did and might want to do again. I don’t trust my mind to hold the details. There is so much already stuffed there. Why do I recall the register code to ring up a chicken chimichanga, twenty-eight years after I last waited tables at El Chico? It’s 808. The phone number at my childhood home was 542-0549. I can’t tell someone my current work number unless I have my business card at hand.

Do I remember how to drive to a friend’s house, what store carries the salsa that I like best, how many pints are in a quart? Absolutely not. But I do know that the dad from The Brady Bunch was an architect, and Darrin Stephens on the tv show Bewitched worked for an advertising firm.

We made plans to visit Galveston again, this time in cooler weather. I’ll record the trip in my journal, and note the places we go. We’ll wander through The Strand and visit the souvenir shops on the seawall. I’ll look for a replacement for my coffee mug, but this time I’ll buy two, in case I decide to chunk one at a squirrel.

The Places We Go When We Look for Love

Photo by the author. Edited with the Waterlogue App

Summer is the season of love – for Texas tarantulas. Despite having eight appendages, they have no opposable thumbs and no way to access a special spider dating site. Like a shy single guy, the males venture out as the sun sets, searching for that one special arachnid lady. He must make a hasty love connection as the male tarantulas only live seven to eight years, while the females can live up to the ripe old age of twenty to twenty-five.

Photo by the author – male tarantula spotted at Arbor Hills Nature Park, Plano Texas

He hunts for his special love by scent, tracking a possible mate to her burrow. Once there, he taps on the fine webs at the entrance and hopes she’ll respond by swiping right in spider fashion. If the answer is yes, perhaps they’ll go out to dine on a fine meal of crickets before or after the romantic hook-up. However, if the female is not in the mating mood, she is apt to make a meal of her suitor instead. Either way, someone will have a nice dinner.

Photo by the author – Arbor Hills Nature Park, Plano Texas

I met Andrew, my husband, at Arbor Hills Nature Park. We had connected on a dating site and arranged our first date online. No need for a scent trail, I spotted him holding a Frisbee as he stood in a field near the parking lot.

Photo by the author – the creek at Arbor Hills

Over the next few years we visited the park often, eventually sharing an apartment, our own cozy burrow, next to the nature area.

Photo by the author – wildflowers

Two years ago we bought a house and moved farther away from the park, too far to walk or drop in for night time strolls. Three weeks ago, before the summer heat turned the sidewalks to griddles hot enough to melt the rubber soles of our shoes, Andrew suggested an evening stroll at Arbor Hills. “The tarantulas might be out already,” he said.

Photo by the author – thistles and flowers

We arrived at dusk, at the last of the golden hour, right before the sky turned from blue to twilight lavender. Carrying flashlights, we hiked along the concrete trail that wound three miles through the park. In past visits we had often encountered the palm-sized, furry, brown female tarantulas. They crawled across the paths like something from a science fiction/horror flick, scurrying along on their own spidery missions.

Photo by the author – mushrooms around a tree stump

“When will they be out?” I asked Andrew, as we drew near the back of the park.

“Look in the grass beside the trail. We’ll see the males first.”

A circle of mushrooms, a tiny Stonehenge, stood tucked in the dry grass. Andrew was the first to spot the tarantula.

Photo by the author

He emerged from the weeds and leaves and crawled onto the trail in front of us. Not monstrous at all, the tarantula weaved side to side along the concrete, like a bar patron leaving at last call. I snapped pictures and waved as he set out, determined to find love. I hoped he would find a mate that night, or if not, that he would keep searching. Arbor Hills was, after all, a good place to start.

Photo by the author – tarantula

The Mob Rules Our Garden

An adventure in unintended consequences

Photo by Andrew Shaw

We installed the owl house with the goal of attracting a predator to our yard. Months back, we’d been overrun by a mischief of rats. They flooded our backyard every evening – a scurrying gray sea of rodents. Winter arrived and the tide of rats receded. Then, in late spring, we received our first resident owl. At first, Andrew and I rejoiced, happy to have our own rodent assassin on hand if the little buggers returned. Would we be blessed with owlets?

Excited, we broke out the binoculars. Andrew grabbed his camera and zoomed in for a portrait. With a creek bordering our property, we never want for wildlife. We were blissfully unaware of the consequences of inviting a bird of prey into our little sanctuary. After all, we had observed bobcats, raccoons, and possums wandering through our garden. I rely on a squadron of little green lizards to keep unwelcome bugs at bay.

Photo by Andrew Shaw

Along our sidewalk, toads alert on night patrol wait for juicy June bugs to stumble into their path.

Photo by Andrew Shaw

Not long after the owl first revealed itself, a chorus of squawks, chitters, and shrill whistles rose from our yard like a concert from an out of tune orchestra. Our visitor ducked back into the cover of the wooden house.

“What are they doing?” I waved at the flock of jays – a blur of blue feathers dive bombing the owl house.

Andrew stated the obvious. “They don’t like the owl.”

And no wonder. I realized we had placed the bird house directly overlooking our feeders. The ones where every morning a queue of owl-bite-sized wrens, chickadees, and finches appeared. Not so good for the victims, but a perfect opportunity for the bird of prey. We had installed a hotel room with a complementary breakfast buffet.

Photo by the author

Andrew and I joined in the ruckus, jumping and waving our hands while yelling “Shoo! Shoo!” The owl, unimpressed, poked his head out now and again to glare at us. Our songbirds – blue jays, cardinals, and chickadees – continued to squawk and dive bomb the bird house. This behavior is known as “mobbing” and occurs when birds feel threatened by a predator. They band together to harass the intruder. This continued throughout the day. The mobbing behavior reminded me of the short story The Birds by Daphne Du Maurier. Most people remember the Alfred Hitchcock movie based on the story. “We better remember to keep the feeders filled,” I told Andrew.

At last, at dusk, with the mob dispatched to their night time roosts, the owl emerged. He flew to the creek for a quick drink, then disappeared into the trees. We haven’t seen an owl since then, but we hear them sometimes. Possibly they are sharing the bad review of our noisy bed and breakfast.

Abandoned, But Not Forsaken

Exploring the Old Zoo Nature Trail in Cisco, Texas

Entrance to the Trail – Photo by the author

There is something about deserted spaces that draws out the explorer in me. Horror fan that I am, I know these are the spots where the paranormal linger. I would trespass into every vacant house if it weren’t for the threat of arrest. Instead, I feed my curious spirit with estate sales, circling rooms recently emptied of their human inhabitants and filled instead with the bric-a-brac they have left behind. No ghosts linger there, the only thing wafting through these places is the scent of mothballs and menthol.

I’d love the chance to wander through an empty asylum, a shuttered convent, a derelict hospital building. Any place filled with spiders and memories. I first heard about the abandoned zoo in Cisco through a YouTube video. “We have to go there,” I told my husband.

Zoo Trail Marker – Photo by the author

We arrived in Cisco at noon, early enough for a picnic lunch, then headed outside town to the zoo. The zoo had operated in the 1920s and closed in the 1930s. In 2021, A nonprofit organization, SAFE (Students, Athletics, Families, and Education) stepped in to clear the trash and build hiking paths.

The Start of the Trail – Photo by the author

The trail wound through the crumbling remains of the concrete structures built to house the animals.

Photo by the author

We wandered past rusted metal bars, peered into cave-like structures.

Photo by the author

Had our path been lit in twilight instead of bright, mid-day sun, I might have imagined the sad calls of the creatures who had lived in these enclosures.

Photo by the author

I wondered what had happened to the zoo’s inhabitants once the place closed. Even though I listened closely, I heard no whisper of ghostly growls – just the occasional whistle of a song bird.

Photo by the author

We continued along the trail, past the animal pens.

Photo by the author

Despite the sign’s promise – I spotted neither spiders nor a spider-shaped rock. As we passed the remains of an old foot bridge, the high notes of childish laughter drifted to us. Other hikers, not the specters of visitors from a century past.

Photo by the author

We climbed to an overlook, to a spot marked “Cougar Rock.”

Photo by the author

We left before sundown, before the spirits of past inhabitants appeared. No ghouls, just a lovely place for a spring stroll through the reminders of a past reclaimed in Cisco, Texas.

Everyone’s Taste is Not Your Own

Photo by the author

The past has flavor. It tastes like cherry popsicles melting red down your arm on a hot summer day. It might taste like Saturday night at home, watching the movie of the week and eating pepperoni pizza. The kind from a box kit, with tiny circles of spicy pepperoni swirled into the sauce. Sometimes it tastes like love and joy, like Friday night dinner out with your family – tacos and enchiladas and queso and salsa and chips hot from the fryer.

Photo by the author

We drove up to Wichita Falls one Saturday, to explore the downtown and see if we could find something interesting in the antique shops. Along the way we stopped in Muenster at Fischer’s, a small grocery stocked with local products inspired by the town’s German heritage. I bought spaetzle and pickles and chow-chow relish. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tang of vinegar. Then, as we made our way to the cashiers at the front of the store, I spotted a box of Chef Boyardee pepperoni pizza mix. I hadn’t seen this product in the Dallas area in ages. I scooped up the last two boxes. This pizza had been a staple of my childhood and teenage years.

Photo by the author – Downtown Wichita Falls

In Wichita Falls, we trooped through dusty shops and searched for bargains, climbed creaking stairs in hopes of discovering treasure. We had left our drinks in the car, parked two blocks away. As the hot afternoon wore on, I dreamed of a cold glass of iced tea. After wandering through a maze of shelves stocked with foggy glassware, yellowed magazines, and toys with missing parts – Andrew and I decided it was time for an early dinner.

Photo by the author – Miss Kim judges your taste

Photo by the author – the seamstress

I had picked the restaurant based on the Yelp reviews. The place had been in business for decades and had racked up a reassuring 4.5 stars out of 5. Their specialty was something called a “red taco.” I couldn’t wait to try it.

“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “It might be too busy. If there’s a wait we can come back later.”

I agreed, but secretly vowed to suffer the wait. I’d dreamed of that taco the whole time we circled through stacks of broken typewriters and piles of musty books.

Photo by the author

When we arrived at the restaurant, I was thrilled when the smiling cashier told us to sit wherever we wanted. We squeezed into a narrow booth. A waitress popped by to take our order. Andrew decided on enchiladas and asked for queso in place of chili. I had a combination plate – a cheese enchilada and the long anticipated red taco. We added a bowl of queso to start.

When the waitress dropped off our chips and queso, I thought there had been some mistake and we’d been served biscuits instead. Each piece was at least a quarter inch thick and weighed enough to raise a decent welt if I chunked it at someone. The queso sported a suspicious pink tinge, as though the antacid were already blended into the sauce. A pudding-like consistency, it clung to the chips and quivered.

Andrew gave me a stricken look. “I added queso to my enchiladas.”

“Maybe they will mess up the order.”

However, our main meal arrived quickly and was just as we had requested. The famous taco was certainly red. A vivid, siren screaming red that could only come from a lifetime allotment of red dye number 40. The taco shell was thick like the chips, and possibly made from the same tortillas. Where had they come from? I’d never seen anything like that, unless you count the time I attempted to roll out my own corn tortillas at home. The refried beans were lumpy and unseasoned. My cheese enchilada was good, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to justify the price on the menu.

I pulled up the Yelp app and read through the reviews. Had we stumbled into some alternate universe, one where everyone else thought this tasted fine? Like that Twilight Zone episode where everyone has a pig face except this one girl who believes she’s the ugliest person alive?

This time, I searched for the 1 star opinions. As I read through the ratings, one theme appeared throughout – puzzlement. Then I sorted the positive reviews. Most had one thing in common – memory.

“I’ve been going here since I was a child.”

“I always stop in Wichita Falls for a red taco.”

All around us there were smiling people dining on the chips, dipping into the queso. It must be tradition. So many restaurants closed during Covid. I can count on one hand the stores that are still open that also existed when I was young. How reassuring it must be to have one constant in your life, one place you can go and say you’ve been there for years? The food must taste better when flavored by memory.

Photo by the author

Time Travel in Ladonia Texas

This past weekend Andrew and I drove out to the Ladonia Fossil Park. We’d been there before, during Covid. I remembered the solitude and peacefulness of strolling beside the North Sulphur River.

I had delayed a return trip, due to my terror of the steps leading down to the river. When we’d last visited, I’d resorted to scrambling along beside them down the slope to the water. Fear of breaking a hip overcame any insult to my dignity.

Now, however, the Fossil Park has moved upstream from the old location and they’ve installed a concrete ramp. If I stumbled on the ramp, I would roll on down the concrete until my journey ended at the mud pit below.

While Andrew set up to dig through a pile of loose rock, I wandered off on my own, enjoying the burble of the water beside me and the warmth of the sun on my back. Every now and then bursts of laughter drifted past from a group of children wading upstream. Scuffing my shoes through the gravel, I hoped to find something interesting. This area was once covered in water, an ancient sea filled with sharks, mosasaurs, oysters, and cephalopods dating back to the Cretaceous period, 145 million years ago.

It takes a sharp eye to spot the fossils, tucked as they are amongst the ordinary bits of quartz, shale, and dirt. But if you take wonder in small things, you’ll be pleasantly surprised at what you find.

I picked up a rock, worn slick and rounded as a peach by the river.

I discovered other things too, bits of petrified wood and bone, shells and imprints of shells, cemented forever in hardened clay.

I traced the curve of a shell, marveled at the smooth lines of petrified wood, and wondered at the lace-like pattern in a bit of bone. What a miracle that these things have persisted, so many millions of years. Not everything leaves such a trace behind. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.