Halloween Party Horrors, Ghosts, Legends, & Cryptids

Joe, Suzy, Jennifer, Jamie, Scott, Samaire, Mark W., Kim W., Kimberly B., Terry, Beth;
the Front Man is behind the camera

The Front Man

'Tis done! Brugger and I put on our annual Halloween Party last night, which was—as expected—crashed by a plethora of frightful fiends. Sadly, several folks who'd anticipated attending weren't able to, but those who did, at least by my reckoning, somehow survived. There was cheese and there was meatballs (alas, no caviar), and long tall glasses of wine up to h'yar. Yes, we did have that and more. I think it's safe to say that no one left the premises hungry or thirsty.

We had a fun Halloween horror trivia contest — 13 questions about horror movies, books, and stories. I made most of the questions pretty easy for the layman, but a few of them required a bit more than casual horror knowledge. At least a couple of people correctly answered the question "Which 1982 horror classic featured the famous line, 'You've gotta be fucking kidding me!'" Go Suzy and Joe!

Now, I started out as the Front Man from Squid Games, but after a while the heat in there began to get to me, pretty seriously, so I changed into last year's slightly more casual costume, which still hung in our entryway closet (see below photo with Brugger). Temperature-wise, this provided some relief, and it also made it a hell of a lot easier to consume wine and vittles. In case I didn't mention it, we had lots and lots and lots of wine and vittles.

Some of us stayed up till the wee hours yakking about scary things, both real and unreal. Sadly, the real is overshadowing too much of the far more agreeable unreal. All in all, we had a fine time. Needless to say, the better part of this morning was spent on restoring the casa to habitable condition.

Horror trivia! Suzy, Joe, Beth, and Jamie won prizes.

This afternoon, I attended a presentation about the ghosts, legends, and cryptids of Martinsville and Henry County, given by Garrett Channel, who is the executive director of the Salem (Virginia) Museum. He provided a lively, very enjoyable talk that was perfect for the season. He related the legend of Sam Lion, a bit of local (very likely embellished) history, which I wrote about a few years ago (here). After his presentation, I talked briefly with him about my writing and interest in such creepy legends, and he told me he actually used my blog as one of his references. Well, I find that kinda cool, particularly since I use both the real and "altered" folklore of this area as a basis for many of my stories and books (most recently, The House at Black Tooth Pond).

As an added bonus, I ran into my seventh-grade American History teacher, Ms. Kerry Tillery, who lives up the street from us. She is a most wonderful person, and I'm so glad she is still around. It's always a pleasure to have the opportunity to talk with her.

"Castle Rock," I call it. I have a geocache here. This was supposedly a part of the original
"Sam Lion's Trail" of local legend.

Bill Vickers — Unforgettable

The relentless parade of death marches on, this week taking my favorite and most memorable teacher from my school days. William (Bill) D. Vickers was my tenth grade biology teacher at Martinsville High School (1974–1975), and I consider him among the most positive influences on my life — maybe the most, outside of my immediate family. Mr. V. was, first and foremost, a likable, well-spoken gentleman who showed respect to everyone — even when some of us scarcely deserved it. He didn’t tolerate any guff, but his personality was such that even the worst of us didn’t want to give him any guff.

In class, Mr. V. gave us all nicknames. I was Polo (you know, as in Marco). We had Sir Slab, Ms. Red Nose, Jaypee, Bonneville, and all kinds of other colorful names. In later years, he called my brother “Mark” — not after me, but after comedian Mark Russell, whom he said Phred favored.

Now, I can’t say as I remember shit about Gregor Mendel or the phylogenetic tree of life or the finer points of natural selection. But I clearly remember the labs where we evaluated the merits of evolution vs. scientific creationism (because in those days you could do this without setting off a holy war); debated whether marijuana should be legalized (and to what degree, be it medicinal or in general); and analyzed current social issues (such as whether we favored busing students to distant schools to fulfill integration quotas). Of course, we did actually study the more traditional aspects of biology, and to reinforce our learning, we regularly played games, such as Chalk Talks, which made the subject fun and, above all, memorable.

Later, when Mr. V. became interim principal at the high school, I would on occasion drop in to say hi, and he’d take time out of his busy day just to shoot the shit for a while. One day in the late 1980s, when I was living in Chicago but visiting Martinsville, I saw him coming out of church as I drove past. I stopped the car, we started talking, and that went on and on for some ungodly spell. Again, I’m sure he had other things to do, places to be, and people to see, but he never short-changed anyone his time.

I believe the last time I saw him was in the early 2000s, when his daughter was babysitting for friends Joe and Suzy. When he came to pick her up, once again, we ended up deep in conversation for a ridiculously long spell.

Martinsville Bulletin writer Holly Kozelsky interviewed me earlier today about Mr. V., and she did a bang-up job getting a lovely profile written and on the site in just a few hours. Here’s the link:

“Peacemaker Bill Vickers: What He Did Was He Listened”

I just wish I had been able to see Mr. V. again before it was too late. At least during those encounters with him after high school, I let him how in no uncertain terms how profoundly he had influenced my life. (I’m still working on those life lessons about showing respect to people who I calculate don’t rate any.) I trust there were many, many folks within his sphere of influence who share my better sentiments.

R.I.P. Colie Johnson

From the day I started school... jezus, back in the early 1960s... I was fortunate to have had one excellent teacher after another, many of them being exemplary, inspiring, and memorable individuals. Mr. Colie Johnson was my art teacher in 8th and 9th grades at Martinsville Junior High. A gentleman who was passionate about teaching and who steered me in the right direction when it most counted, back when I was struggling to find an outlet for my budding creative aspirations.

I was an artistic youth, to be sure, and reasonably accomplished for my years — though my opinion of my talents far exceeded my actual abilities. Mr. Johnson recognized whatever talent I had and appreciated it; yet, whatever level I reached with my art, he refused to allow me to be content there. Inevitably, however proud of a composition I might be, he would study it, smile, point out everything that was right about it... and then he would become thoughtful and ask me if anything about the work was missing, if there were any other approaches I might consider. His expression I most remember was "yet and still..." "You've captured this texture just right, yet and still, I wonder if there's anything else you might find, something more you might see." This frustrated me because, no matter how highly he praised my efforts, he also... always... found things I could or should do better. He never specifically identified these things. He left that up to me.

Thank the lord.

Mr. Johnson drew the ire of many of us kids because he pushed us to look beyond whatever level of achievement we might reach in his class. He did this with warmth and humor, which sometimes made it worse because in my brash youth I would rather have told him to kindly piss off. But I couldn't do that. I liked him. I so wanted to be mad at him for foiling me, yet also I wanted to please him. It frustrated me no end that I might so consistently fail, at least in his eyes, even though everyone else around me was telling me I had achieved some level of genius. I could have listened to those voices, I suppose, and been content to rest on my laurels. But no. My appreciation for... any my loyalty to... Mr. Johnson would not allow for that.

I can't say with any degree of certainty that I've ever lived up to the potential Mr. Johnson expected of me, or at least hoped for me. In fact, I'm certain I have not because, over many years of expressing myself through various media, I have determined that, no matter how good I might get, I can always get better. There is great beauty in this, and I'm sure, at some point, I would have come to realize it even if I had never been in Mr. Johnson's classes. But it would not have been with such appreciation, personal guidance, and genuine care.

Mr. Johnson died the other day, at the age of 75. I had seen him a handful of times since junior high school, and somehow, I had it in my head that he'd be around for a long, long time, and that I would at some point be able to see him and talk with him again.

But no. No.

Quite a few of the most influential educators in my life have passed on now, and I've grieved for many of them, but at the moment I am grieving hardest over Mr. Johnson. It's a rare teacher who could touch me on the level he did. I did a little crying today.

If you have a teacher, or teachers, who have touched you, let them know. For god's sake let them know because, before we can blink, they may be gone. Years ago I told Mr. Johnson that he had moved me, and I so hope it registered. I wish I could have the opportunity to tell him again. Just for good measure.

"The Author Speaks" (or "How to Drive Dozens of Young Innocents into the Pit of Despair")

The author offers words of wisdom to prospective young writers: "I hear there's a lot of money
to be made servicing HVAC systems." (Photo by Stephen Varsi)

My good friend and educator par excellence, Suzy Albanese, recently invited me to speak on the subject of writing to her English and Creative Writing classes at Greensboro's Piedmont Classical High School. Now, I'm always honored when someone considers me worthy of sharing some wit and wisdom to a class full of impressionable young minds, but I will admit to having some trepidation about the prospect, for at various times in the past, I have taught and/or given presentations to human people of all age groups, from elementary school through college. It's not always pretty. There was that nine-year-old girl in a class at the local art center many years ago whose dad was a lawyer, and she assured me that he would sue the pants off me if I made her complete any assignment she didn't consider fun. To this day, I'm not sure how I managed to keep my pants. On the other hand, when I taught an art course for adults at a community college once long ago, one of my students turned out to be my toughest high school English teacher, and the payback was sweet delight. As often as not, though, I've had to nurse that continual worry about losing my pants, particularly when the students are of junior high to high-school age.

Happily, this most recent adventure rendered my concerns moot, for the crew of students attending my (totally improvised) talk proved intelligent, attentive, courteous, and personally engaging. (I suspect they have some good teachers and — clearly — more than a dash of home training.) Many of them were able to converse knowledgeably about not only the fundamentals of writing in general but about horror in particular. Now, some of them might have been disappointed to learn that I do not hang out regularly with Stephen King, or live in a huge haunted house overlooking an ancient graveyard, or write a bestseller every night so I might travel the world in luxury, but no one appeared to be discouraged from diving into the pit and exploring the various shadowy corridors of their own creative minds. Try as I might, I don't believe I convinced anyone to abandon their literary aspirations for more secure and exhilarating adventures in the world of certified public accountancy. More's the pity, for surely we need more accountants; I certainly do come tax time.

At the end of the scheduled talk, several of the students came to converse with me one-on-one, which I must say I appreciated. All in all, I came out of the school with a bit more faith in at least some members of the younger generation than I had going in.

Thank you, Mrs. Albanese, for the experience was a pleasure.

These young folks are actually listening and taking notes, not fiddling with their phones.
C'est magnifique! (Photo by Stephen Varsi)