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Wild Man of the Hunt

By CM Riddle

Mom grew up in the country with her brother and sister, along with what seems like hundreds of Italian immigrant relatives.

Mom’s great-grandparents Albina (the mean one who kept a lid on the candy jar) and Rosalina (the sweet one who didn’t have a lid on the candy jar) were sisters. They sailed into San Francisco from Luca Italy in the late 1800’s with their husbands, who were brothers; Pietro and Romolo.

While making great efforts to become a part of the new world, the family still clung to ways and traditions from Italy. Working on their land they grew vegetables and flowers, and made wine. Their families thrived in West Marin.

Rosalina, or as Mom called her, Noni Rosie, had an original “bed and breakfast.” She hosted gentlemen coming up from San Francisco to hunt deer, squirrel, and ducks. She became an excellent cook by foraging herbs like flavorful bay leaves or wild porcini mushrooms, and she’d serve a sweet huckleberry pie, all gathered from the Inverness Ridge to create her delicacies.

Their families grew and these multiple generations of cousins lived along a short section of Highway One in Inverness Park. They shared holidays and celebrations together.

Swiss Italian folklore followed Mom’s grandpa, Nono Mano, to Inverness Park. When he was a boy, children were told to be good, and Santa Claus would bring toys, but if they misbehaved, his counterpart, a dirty betrodden creature, much like Germany’s Krampus, the man of the wild hunt would come. Instead of leaving presents, he’d stuff the naughty children into his sack and take them far away.

*****

This past winter, my daughter Natalie found a local Old Traditional Winterfest. One of the attractions included having your picture taken with Krampus. She loved the idea of having her baby, Lilith, meet Krampus, so we invited my Mom and off we went in search of him.

“I never heard of Krampus, but Nono Mano used to dress like Santa when I was a kid,” Mom said. “And he scared us. At Christmastime Nono Mano would burst into the kitchen, dressed like a maniac with a scraggy beard made of lacey grey lichen hanging from his chin to his chest. His cheeks were rouged red and his knitted beanie pulled low near his brow, made his eyes look wild. Over his shoulder he carried a gunny sack tied to the end of a crooked old branch.”

She told us how she squirmed behind the old stove or hid behind her mother’s dress while he swooped around the kitchen pretending to snatch the children. She didn’t like that the grown-ups laughed at the kids’ fears.

I have cozy memories of Noni’s kitchen. The room was one huge square with a cast iron Wedgewood stove taking up a whole corner. Noni could cook up anything by adding chunks of wood to the burning side. The other side she used to bake. The top had “burners” which she lifted with some sort of tool so she could stir the embers thus keeping the temperature even for cooking or keeping the room warm. I couldn’t imagine a maniac in that kitchen.

My memories of Nono Mano are from when he was quite old. He sat in his chair at the table, sipping his coffee and smiling. Many years later, I came to know the funny smell on him was whiskey. He’d sit at the table sipping away, letting the whiskey ease the pain of his aching joints. To this day, a whiff of whiskey in a cup of coffee brings me right to that kitchen and the sweet old man who sat there. Worn sweater, crooked hat, and a smile.

Thoughts of him lunging around the kitchen with his mossy beard flying baffles me. I can’t envision him as a scary Krampus, yet Mom remembers.

Mom was a brave one, full of courage and muster to show up year after year while dreading the old man of the wild hunt to bursting into the kitchen.

Though this generations old tradition was carried out by Nono Mano, me, and my siblings missed it, thank goodness. My mom’s crowd of cousins were the last to witness this fantastic folklore.

With the emergence of paganism and new-age spirituality, Krampus has returned. There is a special enchantment of the old ways. Everything in life has a light side and a shadow side, where there is light, there is dark, good and bad, and so it goes.

I treasure lessons in “ancient folklore.” I’d hang with Jolly St. Nick, but it is important to know Krampus is out there watching too. The duality that one gives from his huge sack of toys, and the other will stuff you in his sack if you are a jerk, boosts the odds of good behavior.

Enjoying our day, my daughter paused to point out we are a four-generation tribe… Mom had a “real” version Krampus visit her, and her great-granddaughter gets to know of a gentler version of him. I am grateful my daughter let my granddaughter visit both Santa Claus and Krampus. Together they bring true magic to the season!

Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. She is an author, and creator. She has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. She is a High Priestess who leads a variety of Women’s Circles. She is a mother and grandmother, and she lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

Marshmallow Webs Between My Fingers

By Robin Mills

It’s a summer morning on Granville Avenue, my grandparent’s home.  The wafting smell of Sanka, released by boiling water poured over freeze-dried crystals in the bottom of a cracked and stained white porcelain mug, slinks out of the linoleum floored kitchen with yellow counter tops, sails down the hall to our bedroom where we sleep, our heads on flattened pillows and our little bodies under mothball infused quilts.

Dragging our summer-tanned and happily worn bodies to the table, twisting fists dislodging sleep from our eyes, we sit, awaiting our breakfast. For the kids, ¼ cup Sanka, ¾ cups milk and a heaping teaspoon of brown sugar. I stir the mixture, from brown and white swirls to a tan much like the color the summer sun has laid on my scrawny legs. I slip the spoon covered in undissolved grounds into my mouth, a bite of bitter on my tongue.

My grandmother serves fresh squeezed orange juice frothed in the blender like an Orange Julius, and a hot bowl of Zoom multigrain cereal with a dollop of yellow margarine. My grandfather, tapping-til-it-cracks, an egg in its faded yellow poached egg holder that I can’t differentiate from the eye-rinse cup that sits on the pink tiled bathroom counter.

I walk across the creaky empty chairs, steadying myself on the chairbacks and table, to his lap, where he never declines to hold me, his fit arms around my waist. I love his smell of campfire smoke from last night’s backyard bonfire. My grandpa seated, stoking the fire, my brother and I each straddling one bouncing knee, our three faces orange-warm as he tells us ghost stories.

We eat charred marshmallows smashed between honey sweet graham crackers, oozing with sweet, melted chocolate that drips down our chins before wiping it away with the back of a hand. White marshmallow webs of sticky white threads between my fingers inevitably end up in my hair.

After breakfast, my grandpa plays his favorite Gilbert and Sullivan record and sings along in his best faux operatic voice until we squirm and complain enough.

Once the clatter and clang of dirty dishes settles and my grandmother appears, we race to the green Oldsmobile sleeping silently in the driveway. We slip and slide with glee, unbuckled across the back bench seat, sailing down Santa Monica Boulevard until we reach the ocean with the sticky smell of sand and suntan lotion and sweet pink cotton candy. Always cotton candy.

Robin Mills lives in Petaluma California. By day she is an American Sign Language interpreter. Her non-work hours are spent writing, swimming, hiking, photographing the world around her, traveling, playing in various art forms and swing dancing.

Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

Arriving

By Julie Wilder-Sherman

She embraced becoming the crone. With age came a dawning while in the sunset, that she didn’t know everything when she was in her 30s. The next 40 years would shape who she would become in her later years—the matriarch, the elder, the wise one in the family. The realization that there was less time ahead than behind tickled her mind every day, and she set out to make the most of her last years. The seventies would be her decade. She would be her own boss.

She made the conscious decision to let some friendships go. People she had put up with were no longer going to drain her energy and time. She would give her remaining energy and time to the ones she loved and cared about—like giving a present carefully selected and lovingly bestowed.  Here I am.  I give you my full attention and presence. It is my gift to you.

The outside world would be let in judiciously and with great care. She no longer allowed television to spew into her living room what she called “shit talk.”  No longer the constant infiltration of the relentless news cycles poisoning her world. Done with that.

She consciously stood before trees in autumn and marveled at their life cycles—some leaves hanging on by a spider’s thread before the wind tossed it into the air and gently swirled to the ground. She noticed that leaves did not crash, but gave one last ballerina twirl and waved goodbye to the height where it once lived before gracefully landing amid rocks or grass or cement. The crone realized that she did not notice these things in her 30s when she knew everything. 

She was aware that reaching her 70s had been denied to many. Her father. Her brothers. Her sister. Gratitude filled her. She embraced naps. For 50 years, she worked and had never napped in the middle of the day. Too many people telling her what to do, when to do it, how to do it, to hurry, hurry, hurry to meet deadlines and goals. In fuzzy slippers and a plush blanket she now curled up on her cushy couch on any afternoon reading a book until her eyelids felt heavy. Then she napped.  She would never have done that in her 30s when she knew everything.

With age came a new kind of patience. A shrug when milk was spilled. Nothing seemed very terrible or scary anymore. She lived 70 years and had seen so much, loved so deeply, cried until her ribs hurt. She’d lived a full, fat life with few regrets. And still had so much more ahead, all on her own terms. She’d earned it.

Julie Wilder-Sherman began reading books at an early age, encouraged by her mother to take books to bed when she was a toddler. To this day Julie reads every night before falling asleep. She likes to write, bake, read, eat, attend live concerts and plays, and travel to all corners of the world with her husband, Jeff Sherman.