Halloween here in Paradise is generally a tame affair, as it was this year. A gaggle of well-costumed children are paraded by our house, all accompanied by their parents. They come with collection bags open to receive our safely packaged bits of candy. All things considered, it’s a pretty sanitary evening, especially since it celebrates the demonic.
As a kid I would be sent out into the world wearing a cheap mask and carrying a pillowcase. I don’t recall ever having parental accompaniment. The world of treats had not yet devolved into the present-day tiny avatars of candy bars, but might feature a host of unpackaged things to eat. Among this bounty might be found:
- home-made popcorn balls
- apples, with or without caramel
- handfuls of candy corn or peanuts
- cookies out of the host’s oven
- full-sized candy bars
There was a complete absence of razor blades, brownies containing psychedelics, or any of the other scary materials or objects that addled conspiracy theorists dreamed up to alarm the populace. (As a species we are so easily frightened that I wonder sometimes how we ever found the courage to leave the caves?)
After Robin and I had turned out the lights and got out of the giving away stuff business for the night, we watched a movie, Late Night With The Devil. It was one of the better horror films I’ve seen. I’d rate it a mild gross-out, but there is so much else to watch.
A movie to be savored. Rotten Tomatoes loved it.
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When I was quite young, and spent summers on Grandpa Jacobson’s farm, going to get the mail was a big deal. The large galvanized mailbox was located up on the county road about a mile from the farm. So when we opened that thing one day and found that it contained a large and heavy package, it was enough to be an excitement. The package was addressed to:
Nels Jacobson
Rural Route 3
Kenyon, Minnesota
At that age I was a bundle of barefoot curiosity, and when Grandpa was taking way too long to open the darn thing to suit me, I began to badger him about it until finally he reached down into the pocket of this Oshkosh B’Gosh bib overalls and retrieved his pocket knife. Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought, as the knife did its work and the carton flew open.
It was a book! A huge book! On the cover were the words “Holy Bible.” It was a true extravagance of a book, and Grandpa lived in a world of very few extravagances .
That farm, which I loved like no patch of earth since, was never big enough to support his family, and taking off-the-farm extra jobs was always a necessity. Leftover money at the end of any given month … or at the end of the year … zero.
But somehow this treasure had come to him. From then on it always rested on the small table alongside his armchair. Table and book to the right, coffee-can spittoon to the left. Evenings he would sit and read, the last thing done before going to bed.
Long years later, after his and Grandma’s passing, the well-worn book came to be mine. Grandpa had made me a gift of it. Inside the front cover were these words:
This Holy Bible shall be presented to our first and oldest grandchild, Jon O. Flom, by Grandpa and Grandma Jacobson, whenever I and Grandma are dead .
Nels was a man of short stature, but had been a giant in my world as a kid. His was a gift that was not taken lightly. Even today, just opening it has the power to bring memories flooding in.
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In two days the U.S. takes its National Civics and Morals test, as Election Day arrives. It’s pretty obvious that a whole lot of folks haven’t studied for it at all. I am as prepared as I can get myself to deal with either depression or relief, but no matter how it goes, there will be a bad taste in my mouth.
In studying the history of the Third Reich, and the role that “Ordinary Germans*” played in that horrorshow, I had realized long ago that we must have at least a few of the same sort of people here at home. People who seem outwardly normal but given half a chance will quickly revert to barbarism. While in my gut I knew this, I hadn’t realized until recently how many of them there were … how many of our neighbors have kept a brown or black shirt in their closet, ready to put on at the first opportunity.
Fool me once … fool me twice …
*Hitler’s Willing Executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust, by Daniel Goldhagen
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Our first snowfall of the year happened on Wednesday last. Big flakes off and on all day. Each one melted immediately on contact.
We’ve seen snow at higher elevations for at least a month now, but not in the valley. The San Juans are looking quite beautiful in their “snow-capped mountain majesty.” (Can’t remember where I heard that phrase but I’m quoting it anyway).
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Today is Robin’s birthday. It is not up to me to tell you which one that is. We will celebrate it sensibly, as behooves sensible people, no matter what their years. No late-night partying, no extravagances, no hangover from the ingestion of an inordinate amount of cake frosting. Just quiet recognition of the passage of time, with perhaps a remembrance tossed in here and there.
We know our way around birthdays, we two. Experts, you might say.
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Little Home In The Valley 