Pandemic Party Pooper

I've been posting ghost stories every December for five years now, because Christmas has traditionally been a time for ghost stories since—well, since before Christmas. The Winter Solstice is the darkest, coldest, bleakest time of the year, so naturally it's the best time for people to think of ways to scare the bejesus out of each other.

The trouble is, this year I couldn't think of a story scary enough to compete with the horror of a deadly worldwide pandemic. I was about to give up and not post anything, when I remembered The Masque of the Red Death.

To be honest, it was never one of my favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories. His most frightening stories, such as The Tell-Tale Heart and The Fall of the House of Usher, are told in the first person—usually by a narrator who's as mad as Alice's Hatter and March Hare put together. In contrast, the detached third-person point of view Poe uses in The Masque of the Red Death makes the story seem cold and sterile—more allegory or fairy tale than horror story.

Well it's certainly horrifying now. It's also one of the few stories Poe wrote that qualifies as a ghost story. For who can the mysterious stranger be who appears at midnight, clad in "grave-cerements...untenanted by any tangible form," but a ghost?

Okay, so maybe it isn't a Christmas story. But then again, maybe it is. Who's to say Prospero's party isn't a Christmas party? It certainly sounds like one, what with the colored lights and that one party pooper everyone was hoping to avoid showing up at the last minute and spoiling everyone's good time. Sure, everyone's read it, but now's the perfect time to read it again—especially if you're considering attending a holiday party yourself.

Have a happy—and above all safe—holiday season. Stay home if possible, but if you must go out, be sure to masque up.

The Masque of the Red Death
by Edgar Allan Poe (1842)

The “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal — the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim, were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow-men. And the whole seizure, progress and termination of the disease, were the incidents of half an hour.

But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and light-hearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress or egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet-dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.”

It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven — an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue — and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange — the fifth with white — the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet — a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum, amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite, there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the fire-light that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes, was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered, that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all.

It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall, a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute-hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to harken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes, (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies,) there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before.

But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric lustre. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not.

He had directed, in great part, the moveable embellishments of the seven chambers, upon occasion of this great fête; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm — much of what has been since seen in “Hernani.” There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these — the dreams — writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff-frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away — they have endured but an instant — and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven, there are now none of the maskers who venture: for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments.

But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who revelled. And thus, too, it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise — then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust.

In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been endured, if not approved, by the mad revellers around. But the mummer had gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood — and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror.

When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage.

“Who dares?” he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him — “who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him — that we may know whom we have to hang at sunrise, from the battlements!”

It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly — for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand.

It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple — through the purple to the green — through the green to the orange — through this again to the white — and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment, turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry — and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterwards, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the revellers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer, whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave-cerements and corpse-like mask which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form.

And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

1919 Illustration by Harry Clarke

A Grimm Horror Story

Can you believe it's October?

It's been four months since I retired. We had great things planned: travel, concerts, excursions to the beach or to wine country, Disneyland. Of course, all of that went out the window with COVID. Instead, I spend a good part of my day watching television programs from my long-ago childhood on MeTV.

Yesterday's programs all had a Halloween theme. I watched an episode of Perry Mason in which the killer disguised himself as a trick-or-treater, and an episode of Leave It to Beaver in which young Theodore "Beaver" Cleaver believed that the nice old lady who had just moved into the neighborhood was a witch. That reminded me of a short story I wrote about thirty years ago, when I was still pursuing my dream of becoming a published writer—a dream I gave up when the magazine that finally agreed to publish one of my stories went out of business immediately after I signed the contract.

I still write stories from time to time, but I no longer try to sell them. I've posted some of them here, where people can read them for nothing. That may be all this one is worth. Certainly nobody ever offered to buy it. And, as you will discover, the plot is hardly original. Still, when I found it, dusted it off, and read it again, it didn't seem half bad. I polished it a little and fixed a few things. (When I wrote it, there were no AMBER alerts, and hardly anyone owned a cell phone.) It's not terribly scary, but maybe it will briefly take your mind off the real-life horrors of current events.

Happy Halloween!

Mrs. Bean
by John R. Logue

"But Mo-om!" Gretchen Anderson whined, "Mrs. Bean is creepy, and she smells funny. And it's so boring at her house. She doesn't even have cable!"

"Now, Gretchen, we discussed this before. Grandma Kinsey's still in the hospital. Mrs. Bean is the only babysitter I could find."

"But why do we need a babysitter, Mom? I'm old enough to look after Andy. Honest!"

"Nine years old is not old enough to babysit."

"Mrs. Carpenter lets Amy, and she's younger than I am. I'm almost ten. Come on, Mom—please?"

"I don't care what Mrs. Carpenter does. With all of these children disappearing I won't leave you home alone. Now get your coats."

"But Mrs. Bean is horrible!"

"Gretchen! I will not allow you to talk that way! Mrs. Bean is a nice old lady. She's always saying how much she loves children. "

"She's an old witch!"

"Nonsense! Now, I don't have time for this. The PTA meeting starts in half an hour. Get your brother's and your coats this instant, or I'm calling your father."

"Come on, Andy," Gretchen sighed, heading for the hall closet. "We're going to Mrs. Bean's."

"Cookie!" Andy gurgled, happily. The prospect of Mrs. Bean didn't seem to bother him in the least.

"Yeah, I'm sure she'll have cookies," said Gretchen.

She didn't tell her mother what some of the kids said about Mrs. Bean. She knew that if she did, her mother would be furious.

---

A few blocks away, Mrs. Bean was saying goodbye to a visitor.

"Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Bean," said Detective Folger. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I know how upsetting this is for you. You were very fond of the Ames boy weren't you?"

"Poor Franky! Such a sweet child!"

"Try to remember, Mrs. Bean. Did you see anyone on the street that day? Anybody who might have been waiting for Franky when he left your house?"

"I don't remember anyone."

"Well, if you do remember anything, give us a call."

"I certainly will, Detective Folger. You will find Franky, won't you?"

"I'm sure we will. We've issued an AMBER alert, of course, and we're looking for Franky's father. Nine out of ten of these cases, it turns out to be an estranged parent."

"If there's anything else I can do, you let me know."

"There is one thing—"

"Yes?"

"The recipe for that casserole."

"Now, Detective Folger. Like I told you, it's an old family secret."

"Just tell me, was it chicken?"

"I'm glad you liked it. You must come to dinner again some time, under more pleasant circumstances."

"Thank you; I'll do that. Goodbye, Mrs. Bean."

"Goodbye, Detective Folger."

---

Mrs. Bean was, as always, delighted to see Gretchen and Andy. "Such sweet children! Come give me a big kiss!"

Andy, never shy, rushed into her arms. Gretchen hated Mrs. Bean's wet, slobbery kisses. She hung back until her mother gave her a stern look and a push towards Mrs. Bean.

"Hello," Gretchen said flatly. She gave the old woman a quick peck on the cheek and tried to dodge her grasp, but Mrs. Bean was too quick for her.

"Do you call that a kiss?" she asked, holding Gretchen tightly. Her clothes smelled like moth balls and dead flowers, her breath like sour milk. Gretchen felt as though she would suffocate.

Mrs. Bean kissed Gretchen's mouth, then both cheeks. "There!" she said, laughing. "That's what I call a kiss!"

"You two behave yourselves," said Mrs. Anderson sternly, catching Gretchen's eye. "Mrs. Bean, you have my phone number, in case you need to reach me. The PTA meeting should be over by ten."

"Don't you worry about a thing, Mrs. Anderson. I'll take good care of them."

"Oh, I know you will. I've got to go, now. See you in a couple of hours."

"Goodbye," said Mrs. Bean.

"Bye-bye," said Andy, waving happily.

"Bye, Mom," said Gretchen, her throat tightening.

She wondered if she would never see her mother again.

---

At the school, Mr. Howard, the principal, introduced Mrs. Anderson to the guest speaker. "Detective Folger, this is our PTA president, Mrs. Anderson."

"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Anderson."

"Thank you so much for coming, Detective Folger. Do the police have any leads at all?"

"I'm afraid we're still pretty much in the dark."

"Well, perhaps you can give us some advice tonight as to how we can better protect our children."

"I'll try. The best advice is to never leave them alone, and only leave them with someone you can trust completely."

"Yes, of course," said Mrs. Anderson. "Thank goodness for people like Mrs. Bean."

"Mrs. Bean?"

"My babysitter. She's just wonderful with children."

"Oh, I know Mrs. Bean," said Detective Folger. "As a matter of fact, I had dinner with her this evening."

"You know what the children say about Mrs. Bean, don't you?" said Mr. Howard.

"What?" asked Mrs. Anderson.

"They say she eats children," said Mr. Howard, winking.

Everyone laughed.

---

As tempted as she was by the Anderson children, Mrs. Bean vowed to never again make the mistake she had made with Franky Ames. Her usual practice was to lure children to her house on their way home from school—the stragglers—plump, lonely children who were easily tempted by cookies and cakes. Franky could have used a little more fattening, and in any case she should have waited for a safer time. But the Johnson boy just hadn't lasted as long as she'd thought he would.

Now she was almost out of Franky. She wished she hadn't shared him with Detective Folger, but how she had enjoyed the joke! She got the idea from an old television show, where a murderer fed the detective the leg of lamb she'd used to brain her husband. She'd improved on the joke by feeding Folger the actual victim!

But now she had to be more careful. The Anderson boy was fattening up nicely. Too bad the girl was so skinny.

"Sure you won't have another piece of cake, Gretchen?" Mrs. Bean asked sweetly.

"No, thank you," replied Gretchen. "Mother doesn't like us to eat too many sweets."

"But your mother isn't here now, is she?"

Gretchen looked at the clock. "She'll be here soon."

She hoped it would be soon enough.

---

At ten o'clock, right on schedule, Mrs. Anderson arrived to pick up her children. Andy, who had fallen asleep in the middle of his third piece of chocolate cake, had to be carried to the car.

"Did Mrs. Bean beat you?" Gretchen's mother asked her in the car.

"No."

"Did she torture you?"

"No. She gave us cake."

"I'm going to have to talk to her about that. It's nice of her to give you all those sweets, but she doesn't have to pay the dentist bill."

"We won't have to go to Mrs. Bean's on Monday, will we, Mom? Grandma Kinsey will be back by then, won't she?"

"Gretchen! You're not still afraid of Mrs. Bean, are you?"

"No," Gretchen lied. "But I miss Grandma Kinsey."

"Well, she should be able to go home tomorrow."

"Good. Mom?"

"What, Dear?"

"Remember that story you used to read us about Hansel and Gretel?"

"Yes, what about it?"

"Would you read it to me again sometime?"

"You can read it yourself, now," Mrs. Anderson replied, laughing.

"I know, but it's better when you read it."

"All right, Dear," said Mrs. Anderson.

She supposed this was just another phase her daughter was going through.

---

On Monday, just before the final bell, Gretchen's teacher gave her a message from her mother to pick up Andy at the daycare.

Most days, Gretchen went straight from school to her grandmother's house, and her mother picked up Andy on her way home from work. But the daycare closed at six, so when Mrs. Anderson had to work late, Gretchen had to pick up Andy, then go to Grandma Kinsey's. The direct route from the daycare to Grandma Kinsey's led past Mrs. Bean's house. Gretchen considered taking a more roundabout way, but she had strict instructions to go straight to Grandma Kinsey's. And why should she be afraid in broad daylight?

Mrs. Bean was sitting on her front porch, rocking. "Gretchen! Andy!" she sang out, waving.

"Hi!" Andy shouted, veering towards her. The prospect of sugary baked goods drew him like a magnet.

"We've got to get to my grandmother's house," Gretchen said, tugging Andy's arm. She wished she was big enough to pick him up and run.

"Surely you have time to stop for a chocolate chip cookie?" Mrs. Bean asked, rising from her chair.

"Cookie!" Andy shouted, breaking free. Gretchen watched in horror as he ran to Mrs. Bean. The old woman swept him up in her arms, laughing.

"Come inside, Sweethearts!" she called, disappearing through the door.

Gretchen looked around her for help, but she saw no one. She considered running to her grandmother's, but what could Grandma Kinsey do? And what would Gretchen tell her? Who would believe that Andy had been taken by that nice old lady, Mrs. Bean? Besides, maybe she was wrong about Mrs. Bean. Maybe Andy was in there, at her kitchen table, happily gorging himself sick on chocolate chip cookies. In any case, she couldn't leave her brother. He was her responsibility. With her heart pounding in her ears, she followed them into the house.

It was dark inside, and quiet. She tiptoed to the back of the house. The kitchen and dining room were empty. She returned to the living room and was about to go upstairs, when she heard a strange noise coming from the cellar.

Gretchen knew Mrs. Bean had a cellar, but she had never seen it. It was the one part of the house that was always kept locked. Gretchen tried the knob. It wasn't locked now. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, afraid to go on, but even more afraid of what might be happening to Andy. What was that noise? She took a deep breath, and started down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs was another kitchen—a bigger one, with a big freezer, a big oven, and a big stove, on top of which sat a big iron pot. Mrs. Bean stood at the counter, her back to Gretchen, sharpening a big knife at a grinding stone, which explained the sound. Next to her, Andy sat on the counter, swinging his legs and eating a cookie.

Gretchen put her finger to her lips, signaling Andy to be quiet, but it was too late.

"Gresh!" he cried happily, waving his cookie.

"There you are, my dear," Mrs. Bean said without turning around. "I was beginning to worry about you."

"It's true, isn't it?" Gretchen whispered.

"What's true?" Mrs. Bean asked, turning to face Gretchen, the knife gleaming in her hand.

"You eat children."

"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bean laughed. "Where did you ever get such an idea? Now why don't you come over here and help Andy and me? We were just about to make a batch of cookies."

"Cookies, Gresh!" urged Andy. He couldn't understand why his sister didn't want to join in the fun.

The old woman took a step towards her, and Gretchen backed away.

"Now, now, my sweet," Mrs. Bean said softly, "There's nothing to be frightened of. You know I wouldn't hurt you. I love children."

Gretchen felt heat behind her; she had backed into the big stove. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the pot, which was filled with water, was beginning to boil.

"It's all right, my sweet," Mrs. Bean said in a voice like syrup. "This won't hurt a bit. I promise."

As the old woman came towards her, Gretchen stared at the knife, hypnotized. Mrs. Bean held it perfectly steadily, perfectly horizontally, precisely level with Gretchen's neck.

"She's going to cut my head off," Gretchen thought, with an eerie calm.

It was Andy who saved her. He finally sensed that something was wrong and burst into tears. Mrs. Bean turned, distracted, and Gretchen awoke from her stupor. She grabbed the only weapon wihin reach, the pot of boiling water on the stove. Wincing in pain as the hot metal seared her bare hands, she turned and hurled it. It hit Mrs. Bean in the face just as she turned back to Gretchen. She dropped the knife and fell to the floor, screaming.

Gretchen yanked her wailing brother off the counter, and half carried, half dragged him up the stairs and out of the house.

---

Mrs. Bean died without regaining consciousness, but enough of Franky Ames was found in her freezer to corroborate Gretchen's story. Gretchen's burns soon healed, and she became the neighborhood hero. Stories of her ordeal quickly spread, improved upon in various ways. According to one version, she had pushed the wicked old woman into an enormous pot of boiling water. Neighbors jokingly asked her for her recipe for "Bean soup."

And her mother decided that maybe—just maybe—nearly ten years old was old enough to babysit, after all.

Every Little Thing

This has been a difficult week. I lost both a favorite aunt and a favorite Supreme Court Justice. (No, I'm not RBG's nephew; I'm talking about two different people.)

I suppose I should be grateful. Grief made me momentarily forget that we are still in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, that the west coast of our country is on fire while the east coast is flooded, and that our president thinks he knows more than all the epidemiologists and climatologists in the world because he has a big "a-brain" that can retain five random words for more than ten minutes. (Big deal. Loretta and I do that all the time when we go to the grocery store. For more than five items, we might need a list.)

Our country—if not our planet—has become apocalyptic, and for me there is no better escape from an actual apocalypse than a fictional one. Some of my favorite works of apocalyptic fiction are: Stephen King's The Stand, Robert McCammon's Swan Song, Robert Kirkman and Tony Moore's The Walking Dead, and Richard Matheson's I Am Legend.

There have been three film versions of I Am Legend, and this week I watched two of them back-to-back: the 1971 version with Charlton Heston (Omega Man), and the 2007 version with Will Smith. Both were pretty good, but neither was as good as the book. I suppose I would give a slight edge to the 2007 version. It had better special effects, and a forty-year-old Will Smith makes a much better action hero than a fifty-year-old Charlton Heston. Also, it has Bob Marley.

When he isn't fighting off monsters or trying to cure them, Smith's character, Dr. Robert Neville, is listening to Bob Marley. As he tells another survivor:

He had this idea. It was kind of a virologist idea. He believed that you could cure racism and hate—literally cure it—by injecting music and love into people's lives. When he was scheduled to perform at a peace rally, a gunman came to his house and shot him down. Two days later he walked out on that stage and sang. When they asked him why, he said, "The people who were trying to make this world worse are not taking a day off. How can I? Light up the darkness."

That quote stuck with me, and I've been listening to Bob Marley this morning. I like Get Up Stand Up, and I think Ruth Bader Ginsburg would have appreciated it, too:

Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights
Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights

However, I think my favorite is the song that is Neville's mantra in I Am Legend: Three Little Birds. I think my Aunt Sheila would have liked it, too:

Rise up this mornin'
Smiled with the risin' sun
Three little birds
Pitch by my doorstep
Singin' sweet songs
Of melodies pure and true
Sayin' (this is my message to you)

Singin' don't worry 'bout a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright
Singin' don't worry 'bout a thing
'Cause every little thing gonna be alright

 

President Goofy

How's everyone holding up?

I retired a couple of weeks ago, and now I have even more time on my hands than I had when I was working from home. A lot of that time has been spent watching the news, and it isn't pretty. COVID-19 numbers are spiking in many states, including ours. The experts continue to urge the standard precautions: hand-washing, social distancing, masks. Most of the people we've seen seem to be complying, but as of this writing there is one notable exception: our president. Recently, one of his Fox Friends urged him to set a good example by wearing a mask, which I thought was pretty funny, considering the fact that he has consistently set the worst example for every sort of human behavior. It's the one thing he's good at—why, he's almost as good as Goofy.

Allow me to explain.

These days, with students having to attend virtual classrooms, instructional videos are nothing special. Even before the pandemic, I'm sure lots of teachers used them. But when I was growing up back in the middle of the last century, it was a real treat to get to watch a movie at school, even if it came with a lesson. Instructional films taught us to be more polite, be more careful, eat healthier—usually with examples of what not to do. The best ones were the Goofy cartoons by Walt Disney, where the narrator told us what we should do while Goofy did the exact opposite, with hilarious results.

Goofy as a demented driver in Motor Mania

During the past three-and-a-half years, Donald Trump has proven himself to be, at best, incompetent, lazy, and a pathological liar. He has demonstrated just about everything a president should not do, and refusing to mask-up during the pandemic is the very least of it. He has insulted our allies, praised dictators and white supremacists, promoted violence, attacked the press, solicited interference in our elections, and blamed everyone else for his own mistakes.

In short, he is President Goofy.

Look, I understand why a lot of people voted for him. They didn't trust politicians. They wanted an outsider, someone who knew nothing about government. The trouble is, President Goofy is every bit as incompetent today as he was when he was inaugurated. He hasn't learned a thing in the three-and-a-half years he's been in office, and he hasn't shown any interest in doing so.

It's time for this experiment in kakistocracy to end. President Goofy has been a useful illustration of how not to be a president, but now it's time to elect someone who knows how to be a president. If you feel you can't vote for Joe Biden in the upcoming election, that's okay. I will understand. But please, whatever you do, do not vote for Donald Trump.

You'd do better to cast a write-in vote for Donald Duck.

The Night the Bat Got In

How's everyone holding up?

Last week I read an article about the pandemic giving people vivid dreams. Well, this morning I had a doozie.

I guess because today would normally be our weekly meeting day, I dreamed I was in a meeting with some of my co-workers. However, because of the pandemic, the meeting was being held at a co-worker's house, and for some reason it happened to be the same house where my family lived when I was in middle school (or, as we called it then, "junior high").

Before I go any further with the story, I need to tell you a little bit about the house and especially about my bedroom. It was a big two-story house, about a hundred years old, with four bedrooms, a front and back stairway, and a small enclosed foyer between the front door and the living room. My bedroom was at the back of the house. It was by no means the biggest bedroom, but it was definitely the coolest, because it had access to a small second-floor porch and to the attic. And mind you, this wasn't one of those cramped attics where you have to get to it by climbing a ladder, you can't stand up without hitting your head on a rafter, and you have to be careful where you walk or you'll fall through the ceiling. This was a big, old-fashioned attic, fully-floored and accessed by an actual stairway behind a door next to my bed.

In my dream, my co-worker had turned my bedroom and the adjoining attic into a spacious, tastefully-decorated office suite. It bore little resemblance to the room I once occupied, but being there reminded me of something that happened to me over fifty years ago. I told my co-workers the following story, which is absolutely true.

---

One night when I was about thirteen, I was awakened by the sound of something flying around my bedroom, something much bigger than the usual fly or mosquito. I had seen bats flying around our neighborhood, so I immediately knew what had happened: somehow, either from the attic or the porch, one had gotten into my room.

My dream audience hung on every word as I described my dilemma: I couldn't stay in the room, but I was terrified to get out of bed. They laughed when I told them how I slowly slid out of my bed and onto the floor, then crawled to the door, reached up and opened it, then quickly exited, quietly shutting the door behind me. I told them how I spent the rest of the night dozing in my father's recliner, how I sneaked back into my room the next day and left the porch door ajar, hoping the bat would be gone by the time I went to bed.

However, the bat must have exited the room when I did, because the following evening it showed up in our living room.

My memory is a little vague about what followed; as I said, this was over fifty years ago. I seem to remember standing on the landing of the front stairs, wielding a broom. I seem to remember the bat flying straight at me. I seem to remember looking directly into its face—and it wasn't one of those cute bat faces; it was horrifying, with lots of teeth. I seem to remember someone screaming, and I'm pretty sure it was me.

I remember that somehow we were able to herd the bat into the foyer and close the inside door on it. Then all I had to do was go out the back door and around to the front of the house, open the front door, and let it fly away.

---

Because my dream audience enjoyed the story so much, I woke up thinking I had to write it down. I also thought it would be nice to tie it to National Poetry Month, this being the last day—and didn't Emily Dickinson write a poem about bats?

Of course she did.

THE BAT is dun with wrinkled wings
Like fallow article,
And not a song pervades his lips,
Or none perceptible.

His small umbrella, quaintly halved,
Describing in the air
An arc alike inscrutable,—
Elate philosopher!

Deputed from what firmament
Of what astute abode,
Empowered with what malevolence
Auspiciously withheld.

To his adroit Creator
Ascribe no less the praise;
Beneficent, believe me,
His eccentricities.

Absolute Reality and Poetry

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality."―Shirley Jackson

How's everyone holding up?

I have to admit the "absolute reality" of our situation sank in this week, and I went a little stir-crazy. I don't think I'm the only one, judging by the number of neighbors I see wandering restlessly up and down our street.

I've had trouble sleeping at night and concentrating on my work during the day. I've been spending far too much time on the Internet, tracking local COVID-19 stats and reading grim tales of death ships, body bags, and mobile morgues.

April being National Poetry Month, I naturally tried to distract myself with poetry. But I kept coming up with poems about death and pestilence, like this one:

Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss;
This world uncertain is;
Fond are life's lustful joys;
Death proves them all but toys;
None from his darts can fly;
I am sick, I must die.
    Lord, have mercy on us!

Thomas Nashe, have mercy on us! His "A Litany in Time of Plague" goes on like that for five more stanzas, but I'll spare you the rest. Right now, we're all better off reading Wordsworth:

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
   That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host of golden Daffodils;
Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:—
A Poet could not but be gay
   In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

Poetry can be very be soothing, when it's not about the plague. So can nature, as Wordsworth and his fellow romantics knew. Looking out my window, in addition to our restless neighbors, I can see flowers, trees, birds, lizards, butterflies—even the occasional rabbit. And when I see such things my heart, like Wordsworth's, "with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils." (Or, to be more accurate, "dances with the California poppies." Our daffodils have come and gone.)

Look, I realize how lucky Loretta and I are. Not everyone can look out their windows right now and see the things we can see. (I'm so grateful we no longer live in a townhouse, where the view from our front window was the dumpster enclosure behind a supermarket.)

The point is, in this terrible time of absolute crap reality, I hope everyone can find something to fill their heart with pleasure and make it dance.

The Coronavirus Circus

"People can start laughing for all sorts of reasons. But sometimes they laugh because, against all expectations, they’re still alive and have a mouth left to laugh with."—Terry Pratchett

How's everyone holding up?

We've been self-isolating for a week-and-a-half, and we're doing pretty well, all things considered. I'm grateful that I'm able to work from home—something I've always wanted to do. But in the end it's still work, isn't it? I'm still grateful for the weekend.

I'm also grateful for Loretta. I don't know what I'd do without her. The other day she went out to buy a few things at the grocery store during the hour they reserve for us seniors. I called out to her to be careful, which used to mean, "Watch out for crazy drivers," but now means, "Stay away from other people, and don't forget your disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer."

Loretta has tried to keep us both active, mentally and physically, by proposing games, jigsaw puzzles, walks, and other activities. She even has us trying to learn the steps to the Laurel and Hardy dance routine from Way Out West. It's her way of coping. In return, I've tried to keep her laughing. Laughter is my way of coping.

I try to find the humor in any situation, which is probably why I'm one of the few people left on the planet who still reads the funnies.

"What are 'the funnies?'" I hear some of you ask.

You know—the comics? In the newspaper?

"What's a newspaper?" I hear some of you ask.

Ask your grandparents.

It's remarkable how little the comics have been affected by the COVID-19 outbreak. Most of them have completely ignored it. I realize cartoonists create their strips in advance, but surely enough time has passed for the Bumsteads, the Flagstons, and the Forths to be self-isolating, and for Pig to spray Lysol into Rat's beer when he orders a Corona in Pearls Before Swine.

It makes me a little uneasy to see these characters continue to go about their business as if nothing has changed—just as it now makes me uneasy to see people not practicing social-distancing on television shows, no matter how long ago they were made. (Why are Andy and Barney always shaking hands, anyway? They've known each other for years.)

I think the award for first mention of the coronavirus in a comic strip should go to Scott Stantis, for his Prickly City strip from Friday, March 20th:

It wasn't very funny, but then Prickly City rarely is—as Stantis himself pointed out in Tuesday's strip:

One of my favorite comic strips is Darrin Bell's Candorville. Bell began to address the pandemic on Monday, with his characteristically wry humor. Here are his strips from Monday and Tuesday:

Family Circus has never attempted to be remotely topical, so I didn't expect it to mention the pandemic. However, because Monday's strip was just begging to be recaptioned, I couldn't resist remedying that situation:

Since then, I've made it my daily project to fix Family Circus to make it more relevant. Here's the rest of the week:

 

Hey, I know it's silly to be spending so much time on something so trivial, when things are so serious. But I'm hoping it gives the people who see it a well-needed laugh. If Jeff Keane sees it, I certainly hope he laughs, and doesn't sue me for copyright infringement. (Remember, Jeff—parody is fair use!)

If it didn't make you laugh, I hope you find something to laugh at. It's times like these we really need to keep our sense of humor, and remember that we're all in this together.

As long as we stay at least six feet apart.

Panic!

Just kidding. Please don't.

When I started this blog, I chose the title "Don't Panic!" as an homage to one of my favorite writers, Douglas Adams, and as a promise to keep things light even when writing about serious subjects.

Subjects like the current global pandemic.

It is a serious subject, indeed. Every day we receive emails from businesses reassuring us that they are doing all they can to keep their customers and employees safe. Schools are closed, theaters are closed, amusement parks are closed.

Yes, even Disneyland is closed.

Loretta planned to go to Costco for a few things this week. Then we turned on the news and saw the mobs of people lined up to buy toilet paper. "It looks like the end of the world in there," said one shopper.

"Forget it," said Loretta.

On television, the people who tell us that above all we should not touch our faces are rubbing their eyes and putting their fingers in their mouths, and our president, who claims he knows more than anyone about every subject and has a "natural ability" when it comes to virus outbreaks, is, as usual, saying whatever stupid thing comes into his fat orange head.

Loretta and I were supposed to embark on a long-anticipated Caribbean cruise this Wednesday. That's obviously not happening, but we will attempt to make lemonade from the lemons life has handed us. To be more accurate, we will make limeade from the limes in our backyard, add some rum, and pretend we're in Jamaica.

In other words, we will do our best to keep our heads and make the best of the situation, and I advise you to do the same. If you're interested, here are some specific suggestions:

• Don't join the hordes of hoarders at Costco. Stay home if you can; if you can't, at least try to stay away from crowds. 
• Try not to touch your face. (It isn't easy. I touch my face all the time without thinking about it. When I do think about it, I suddenly get an itch. Maybe I should try one of those dog cones.)
• Don't listen to bloviating blowhards who have "hunches." Listen to the experts. They're called "epidemiologists," and they work at places like the World Health Organization and the CDC.
• Wash your hands. Wash them after you use the toilet. Wash them before eating. Wash them before touching your face. Wash them after touching your face—or after touching anything. Basically, when you're not doing something else, you should be washing your hands.

And above all, don't panic.

Songs from the Treasure House

According to Shakespeare, I'm rapidly approaching my seventh and final age, that of "second childishness and mere oblivion." No doubt this is the reason I find myself craving many of the comforts of my first childishness, one of said comforts being Captain Kangaroo. Like nearly all Baby Boomers (and a few Gen Xers), I grew up with the Captain. He was as much a part of my formative years as my parents, grandparents, and aunts.

He wasn't just the host of a children's television show; he was family.

Seven years ago a number of items from the show—costumes, props, etc.—were put up for auction. Because she knew what the show meant to me, Loretta suggested we bid on one of the less expensive items. I was thrilled when our opening bid on a stack of 8x10 publicity stills was accepted. Several of my favorites, including an autographed photo of the Captain himself, Bob Keeshan, are proudly displayed in the corner of my den now known as "The Captain's Corner."

The early days, when Mr. Green Jeans' jeans weren't green,
and the Captain was much younger than we thought he was.

Bob Keeshan in later years, when he could act his age.

Bob Keeshan played Captain Kangaroo on CBS from 1955-1984. As one writer put it, "Different generations remember different Captains." The Captain I remember was the one of the early years, when the show was in black and white, Keeshan required age makeup to look the part, and his residence was not "Captain's Place," but "The Treasure House." Although episodes were recorded on kinescope for later transmission to the west coast, hardly any video survives from the Treasure House era. I know the Paley Center for Media has the very first episode, because I watched it on a visit to the Beverly Hills facility back when it was the Museum of Television & Radio. Another one-and-a-half episodes from 1961 can be found on the Internet Archive website.

There may not be much video, but there is music, and music can be a powerful memory stimulant. I've been putting together a playlist of the songs I remember from Captain Kangaroo; some of my finds are listed below. In most cases, I've provided links to where the songs can be purchased (or downloaded for free), and in some cases YouTube videos (not of the show, only of the music).

Disclaimer: the music from the Treasure House era is not necessarily the same music played on the show in later years, so don't be surprised if you don't remember these songs, even if you too grew up watching Captain Kangaroo.

The Theme Song and Other Light Classics

English composer Edward White composed the "light" classical piece "Puffin' Billy" to commemorate a famous steam locomotive. The piece was well-known in the UK before Bob Keeshan chose it as the theme for his new children's television show in 1955. The music played as the Captain started the show by jingling a set of large skeleton keys on an oversized key ring. He would unlock the door of the Treasure House, then hang the keys on a hook on the front of his desk, at which point the music would stop playing. (By the way, at the same auction where Loretta bought my photos the Treasure House keys sold for $28,000!)

The composer most often heard on Captain Kangaroo was Leroy Anderson. There are plenty of recordings of his music; I have this one by Erich Kunzel and the Rochester Pops. If you grew up watching Captain Kangaroo, most of the songs should sound familiar, including this one:

Some other light classics played on the show can be found on the Hyperion album, American Light Music Classics, including "The Whistler and His Dog," by Arthur Pryor, and "Teddy Bears' Picnic," by John Walter Bratton.

Novelty and Seasonal Songs

The Internet Archive site has free downloads of several 1950s novelty songs I remember hearing on the show, including "Cincinatti Dancing Pig" by Teresa Brewer and "Mister Tap Toe" by Doris Day, and seasonal favorites "Dance Mr. Snowman Dance" by the Crew Cuts and "Suzy Snowflake" by Rosemary Clooney.

Teresa Brewer's "Ebenezer Scrooge" was another Christmas favorite. While most of the songs listed here were performed by puppets, for this one the Captain, Mr. Green Jeans, and Bunny Rabbit acted out the story. The Internet Archive has the song, but it's buried within a larger file. I was able to cut it out using the free sound-editing program Audacity, but it's easier to extract an mp3 from the YouTube video using this free online converter.

Children's Music

"Capt. Burl Ives' Ark" is out of print, but someone has kindly posted a free download of the complete album, which includes the Treasure House classics "The Squirrel" and "The Bear on the Ball." It's one big mp3 file, but the sound quality is excellent and the tracks can be separated using Audacity. Several songs from the album are also posted on YouTube; here's "The Squirrel" (aka "Angus MacFergus MacTavish Dundee"):

Here are a few other children's songs that are available for a modest fee from Amazon.com:

• The A.A. Milne song "They're Changing Guards at Buckingham Palace" accompanied a film of—you guessed it—the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.
• "Inchworm" is from the 1952 film Hans Christian Andersen. The song is by Frank Loesser (Guys and Dolls, How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying), and is sung by the great Danny Kaye.
• "Incident on Rogers Creek" was one of my favorite Treasure House songs as a child. I was surprised to find it on a Christmas album, as it has nothing at all to do with Christmas. It's also posted on YouTube:

The Captain Sings!

I could only find songs from the Captain's out-of-print album "A Treasure House of Best-Loved Songs" on Youtube. I used GenYouTube to convert a couple of my favorites to mp3 files. "Erie Canal" is sung by Hugh "Lumpy" Brannum, who, before he became famous as Mr. Green Jeans, had a singing career.

The Captain himself sings "Green Grass Grew All Around." (Well, he talks it; unlike Brannum, Keeshan wasn't much of a singer.) It's a "cumulative song," which makes it a bit repetitious (some might say irritatingly so). But kids love repetition, don't they?

Jazz

Most of my knowledge of jazz comes from my mother, but it was the Captain who introduced me to Dave Brubeck's insanely syncopated "Unsquare Dance." Brubeck called the 7/4-time piece "a challenge to the foot-tappers, finger-snappers and hand-clappers." He could also have said that, like all of the music the Captain played for us, it's a whole lot of fun.