Category: Sparks

  • Relinquishing the Wagon

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

    Relinquish the Wagon

    By CM Riddle

    Many of us go through life dragging a wagon behind us. Gripping the handle, we continue to pull it along while we try grasping at things ahead of us with the other hand. Imagine how much more we could attain if only we could bring ourselves to release that dang wagon.

    What could possibly be so important in that wagon, you may ask. Well, there’s a lot of history in it, I will tell you that.

    It is packed with cherished memories and painful experiences. It gets heavier every year. The grudges weigh a lot, and the guilt slows your pace. But with every step, tugging your wrist, pulling your elbow, and making those broad shoulders, which carry the weight of the world, so weary your, grip begins to slip.

    You wonder where your breaking point will be. Will it be the next uphill battle or will you reach the top of the mountain with elation just to push it over the edge?

    Will you watch the wagon roll slowly at first, then pick up speed, to finally crash and splinter into a zillion pieces?

    Is that where you will find relief? A shattered wagon at the bottom of the mountain, there, bleeding where the colors of your life run together and you no longer recognize what is what?

    Or, what if you do this? What if you take a risk? What if you take a chance and unpack one thing to leave behind. If you do, what will it be? A bad memory, hurt feelings, or a lie you told. Might it be your distaste for Swiss chard? Are you willing to sacrifice a friendship that’s run long past its expiration, or throw out that old ratty quilt that a distant relative gave you which was in bad shape when you got it?

    Is there a piece of you that you will let fall away? Your stubbornness, or maybe your inclination to argue over every little trigger? Might you exchange those traits for peace, and if you do, will the wagon weigh less? Perhaps.

    Are you carrying around a decision that has yet to be made, or did you make the wrong choice and you ruminate over it? No matter. Each day presents the opportunity to begin anew.

    A wise man once said, “Make the choice, if it’s not right, another avenue will present itself. Then choose again. Time is what’s valuable, don’t waste it with indecision.”

    Those words of wisdom keep my wagon mobile, but there are days I still find stuff to lug around. 

    I hope you will take this advice from me; there is always another wagon filled with crap. They are all over the place. Many people have abandoned their wagons, and you can too.

    The method is to let go with the hand holding the past and to reach out with both hands to grab the future. Your future, the fresh clean page of opportunity, gifts, optimism, growth, light, and empowerment are before you. Don’t be afraid to extend both hands, to fill them up. You will be amazed at what you can do once you relinquish your wagon. And, if for some reason you need to get anything from it, it will be there along the path, right where you left it.

    Now go. Grasp life with both hands.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina 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. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

    Marlene C

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  • Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

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

    Any Haircut Is Better With a Smile

    By DSBriggs

    My hair is what? Old, graying and instead of wiry, fine. Since I have been retired my hair style is whatever takes no work and usually in need of a trim or cut. 

    Haircuts, however, are so darned expensive that to save money I used cut-rate clip-joints. I decided to let my hair grow out. It eventually came down to my shoulders. I tried to wear it back with a French braid or bun or even a pony tail. This dream came crashing down when I no longer had the hand strength or coordination to use rubber bands designed for fine hair. Too klutzy to use hair accessories like combs or claws or barrettes, I resorted to clips. My friends were too kind to tell me that really wasn’t working either.

    So, I decided to splurge. Go to a real salon that shampoos and styles. 

    I met the hairdresser. She seemed really nice.  When she offered me coffee or tea. I thought, why not? Part of the splurge.  She sat me in front of a full-length mirror and left. 

    Off she went to get my coffee. She was gone so long I thought maybe she had gone to Starbucks. But she re-emerged with a cup. I apologized to her for the hassle of having to brew a fresh pot. (What else could take so long?) She said that the coffee was already made but she had been so busy she hadn’t had time to pee. I could understand that scenario perfectly. She also admitted that her mom had called with an update about her sister who was hospitalized the night before.

    We finally settled in for the haircut. We looked at pictures of haircuts because she wanted to make sure we were on the same page. I wanted a long pixie with feathered bangs and some height on top. Several of the styles we looked at were what I had in mind. The only style I did not like was an angular, very short cut with long bangs swept to the side. I specifically said I did not want that type of cut. Hair in my face drives me nuts. She said that she understood and went to work.  

    I noticed my hair kept getting shorter and shorter as she talked about her sister. Since it was in the back I wasn’t too concerned as inches came off and hair piled up around the chair.

    It wasn’t until the sides started disappearing that I commented that it was a bit short.  After the fact was a stupid time to point that out. I was still hopeful my bangs would be okay. No. She cut my hair exactly like the picture I did not like. Heavy glop of hair over one eye. 

    The dastardly deed was done.  I paid and over-tipped because while I was disappointed, I didn’t want to make her feel worse since her family was in melt-down.

    As I write, I’m wondering if my lack of communication with the hairdresser and my doctor the day before was my fault? I used to pride myself on explaining so clearly that people understood. When had I lost that ability? Have I lost it or is the world so crazy now that people do not listen carefully? I certainly can’t listen to the news at all. If I listened carefully, I would just want to get on an iceberg and float away.

    So while I sort of have forgiven the hair cutter, I have not forgiven myself for allowing her to ignore my wishes. 

    Ironically, I have received many compliments. I have also been reminded that:

    Hair grows back and any haircut is better with a smile.

    DSBriggs and her hair live in Northern California. She has been writing with timed prompts for over ten years. Her writing has been published  in  Marlene Cullen’s The Write Spot  Anthologies.  The books are available through Amazon and your local bookseller.

    When not writing, Donna enjoys reading, thinking about quilting, and walks with Moose, her 12 and a half year old hound. She also enjoys travel and time with good friends. 

    Marlene C

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  • Grandma Carrie

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

    Grandma Carrie

    By Robin Mills

    I remember the scent of my grandma Carrie, slightly sour mixed with ivory soap. I remember the click of her heels, the kidney shaped metal cleat meant to prolong the life of shoe soles tapping on the cold hard tile floor of their Palm Springs apartment. I remember seeing the white hoop cheese she used to stuff her home-made blintzes, nestled between her front teeth when she leaned in to whisper something in my ear, and her thick toenails covered in shiny red polish.

    Grandma Carrie came across the ocean as a child with her mother, from Kiev, fleeing pogroms and leaving behind some of her ten siblings who would never follow, only to be lost to concentration camps. They settled, living in a New York walk-up, likely shared with more people than there were bedrooms. As a young woman she took secretarial courses and was a member of the American Socialist Party.  She married Morris in 1924, and they moved out west where the weather was friendlier.

    My parents often dropped my brother and me at their home and went off to have kid- free time around an oval shaped pool full of shimmery blue water, under the hot desert sun.  My mother, in her black and white zebra bikini and dark cat-eye glasses, lounged poolside in the quiet.

    Carrie toted us around the desert in her blue Buick, to air-conditioned malls, miniature golf and parks full of cool grass where we laid down under shade trees until the moisture soaked through our clothes.

    At night we slept on the fold out couch in Carrie’s living room, sleeping sideways to avoid the cold hard metal bar that otherwise poked our backs. In the morning, the earthy scent of cracked wheat hot cereal wafted from the kitchen. We sat at the round table covered in a sticky plastic tablecloth rimmed with roses. My grandfather Morris ate soft boiled eggs and read the newspaper, folding it longways in thirds, flipping from section to section. His days were spent hunched next to the radio listening to KCBS news and weather on the hour, wringing his hands or staring off into space. He suffered from “undiagnosed pain in the bones” and lived Palm Springs summers in a wool cardigan and hat.

    My father in passing once mentioned Carrie was married, before Morris. He had a name, Meyer Lesowitz, even pictures of this man. Pictures of them, hiking with friends, posing with her stylish short hair, head band and knicker hiking pants. They were often arm in arm, or close enough to be, atop a boulder or mountain peak.

    We were told it was a short marriage. A year. And that he had died in 1924, a young man.

    In going through boxes of photos and memorabilia I found an autograph book dated the year of this man’s supposed death where he was mentioned as a good friend and wished best of luck. And a College of the City of New York yearbook. And a letter in the New York Times, April 25, 1944 signed by Meyer Lesowitz Teacher of the Blind, 20 years after his “death”.

    My grandmother had all this in her box of memorabilia that was passed from her to my father to me.

    That autograph book still sits on my desk, waiting for me to find more mentions of him online, or a family member to surface and tell us everything of his life. So far, nothing.

    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. She has work published in Underbelly Press, The 200 Word Short Story and The Write Spot and was a finalist for publication in Big Brick Review.

    Marlene C

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  • Getting By

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

    Getting By

    By Ken Delpit

    Success used to mean acing a calculus exam. Success now means increasing a recipe’s called-for two tablespoons by one-third.

    Success used to mean deking a defender and swishing a jumper as time ran out. Success now means changing direction on the living room carpet and not tripping over the cat toy.

    Success used to mean getting several Jeopardy! questions before the contestants did. Success now means remembering why it is I suddenly got up from the recliner and walked into the kitchen.

    Success used to mean handling a ten-digit long-distance telephone number that is to be called, a ten-digit telephone number that is to be charged, and a twelve-digit billing number, all from memory, while tapping into a pay phone and thinking ahead of what I intend to say. Success now means figuring out where I left my cell phone.

    Success used to mean measuring the time between, “Oh, I know that” and retrieving the answer from memory in split seconds. Success now measures that time in hours, sometimes days, and always long after it’s too late.

    Success used to mean deftly handling all those commonly misspelled English words. Success now means getting close enough that Siri can guess what I’m trying to say with four options or fewer.

    Success used to mean catching and righting myself after stepping in a depression on uneven terrain. Success now means choosing the softest possible landing spot before I hit.

    Success used to mean graduating all those TO-DOs on my list, one by one, into “Done” status. Success now means remembering where I put my TO-DO list.

    Success used to mean striving, achieving, accomplishing. Success now means getting by without further injury.

    Despite all evidence to the contrary, Ken Delpit often seems stuck in an earlier decade when it comes to aging. Faced with the truth, and in the spirit of better to laugh than to cry, Ken compares life now versus life then.

    Marlene C

  • A Place in the Sun

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

    A Place in the Sun

    By CM Riddle

    I often find myself writing about the past. It’s easy to remember and type the facts. But today I am writing about the future.

    Instead of facts, I’ll define the future and bring it into reality. My vision of the future is inspired by a song from the past.

    Tuning to Spotify I hear Stevie Wonder belt, “There’s a place in the sun where there’s room for everyone, gonna find me a place in the sun.”

    The lyrical line weaves its way through my thoughts and soon I imagine the most amazing place. A place without pain or suffering. A place filled with hope and everyday joy. That’s where I want to be. 

    Suddenly an esoteric feeling hits deep within my bones. Not knowing if I will live long enough to experience what’s coming, I am somehow assured that there is a future that holds a place in the sun, and it will exist for everyone.

    Swept in confidence, I am aware my grandchildren and all future children of the world will build this place of security. They emerge from a new place, one that is ancient and innovative at the same time. They bring with them kindness and silliness. They offer help and reach out without expectations of return. They are fulfilled by giving more than taking and this place of beauty flourishes.

    I see a future where harmony takes place with every step and the earth is green and growing. I see health and wholeness beyond what we have. The world is cast in a beautiful, energizing, healing, vibrational saffron. A warmth that embraces humankind and melts greed. It is a vibrant color that restores instead of dismantles. The glow of the world is one of ecstasy.

    People and communities take on challenges and step-up, leaving no one to suffer. These tribes and families establish a new kind of wealth. One that does not involve money, banking, or stocks. They find prosperity in creativity and craft within each other. Bartering and trades for betterment are the new investment. And most importantly, no one is left hungry or homeless. There is no need to escape through drugs or other stimulants. 

    The air and the water return to perfect balance and if just one person tries to “own” what belongs to all, well, then they will have to go without for a long time. That seems a fair consequence. 

    This place is filled with more walking and cooking. More gatherings, more laughter. More wisdom and discovery. There is no such thing as insecurities of any kind… food, housing, trade goods. It’s all there for the giving and receiving.

    Support comes from all sources. Family, establishments, community. This is the dream I have. I may not be here on this plane, but it is coming. There will be an element of peace greater than anything ever imagined—and this time around it will be real.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. An author and creator, Tina 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. A mother and grandmother who lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA.

    Marlene C

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  • Dancing Through Life

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

    Dancing Through Life

    By Diane Dupuis

    Dancing can transport you as you get lost in the music and lyrics, simply connecting with the beat, and potentially learning how truly magnificent our bodies are. We are all born to dance. Look at children. They dance in their seats long before they can walk. They don’t even need music. Unfortunately, as we grow, we learn to be self-conscious or feel “not good enough.”

    Many people stop dancing when the joy is gone, and all they feel is pressure. Added to that is the pressure of having the “perfect” form and the “perfect” dancer body.  

    Some dance classes can add the stress of competition or feeling the need to fit in.

    Many studies have highlighted the amazing health benefits of dancing. Not only is it good for your heart and lungs, but it helps build your endurance and flexibility.

    As we age, we need to find ways to improve our strength and balance. Dancing helps reduce joint pain and stiffness. The mental benefits of dance keep depression and dementia at bay.

    Imagine always looking forward to exercising. We know how important it is to move our bodies and how wonderful those yummy endorphins feel afterwards. But many times inertia or our belief of not being a good dancer will stop us from getting up and trying. I have thankfully found GROOVE dance to be an amazing outlet for my energy and worries, allowing myself to get lost for an hour in the joy of dancing.

    I am a single mother of an amazing son. Being an administrative assistant is what has paid the bills all these years, but dance is what pays my soul. I started dancing when I was three years old, but took a very long sabbatical from the age of six until my mid 40’s.

    I wasn’t very happy with my life and went on a journey to find more things to bring joy. Every minute of every day is a choice. I decided to choose JOY and HAPPINESS!

    In 2011 I found a local flash mob that was happening soon, so I signed up and went to classes to learn the steps. Just like that I was hooked on dancing again. When I reconnected with dance I realized how an hour can pass so very quickly when doing something I love. The leader of the flash mob happened to be the Master Trainer in Montreal of a movement called The World GROOVE Movement – which is a very simple dance exercise class with super easy steps that you get to do your own way. No more feeling like a dummy, like when I couldn’t keep up in other aerobics dance classes. I was quickly hooked and two years later became a facilitator, the day before my 50th birthday, allowing me to lead GROOVE dance classes in my hometown of Montreal.

    The World GROOVE movement has five GROOVE truths which tend to spill over in our everyday lives:

    1. Nobody cares what you look like (and if they do – it’s their problem not yours).
    2. Your way is the right way. Another great lesson to take into your life. If the type of dancing feels good to you – then it’s the right way.
    3. No one can do it for you. You have to decide you want to do something and you are the only one who can do it (i.e. move your body). The intensity of a dance workout is completely up to you … you decide how much you want to put in (or get out) of each dance session.
    4. You should look different! We are all so beautifully unique and special. Dance it your way and just make it feel super delicious in your body.
    5. You don’t understand something until you apply it.

    I truly believe that EVERYbody can dance – making EVERYbody the perfect dancer.

    I have dealt with several health issues over the years, including melanoma, migraines, arthritis, and fibromyalgia. Being able to move my body in a way that feels just right has been a life saver. Many exercise modalities believe in “no pain, no gain” but GROOVE is the opposite. Always respecting and listening to your body and allowing it to move in a way that feels best to you has been life changing.

    I like to encourage self-love in my classes. I play lots of songs about love and encourage everyone to sing it to themselves first and foremost.

    We are in the longest relationship of our lives with our bodies – let’s stop taking our body for granted and let’s show it love every single day!

    Excerpted from “The Write Spot: Writing as Path to Healing,” available from your local bookseller, and as a paperback and ebook from Amazon.

    Marlene C

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  • A Break-up Letter

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

    A Break-up Letter

    By CM Riddle

    Dear Time,

    Forget You!

    I am tired of the way you sneak up on me. Stealing moments and making plans that take forever to prepare, then the event flies by.

    I long for the days of following the sun and the moon and using its rhythm to play my own tune.

    You cause great stress upon me, as others in my life have depended on you so much that they expect me to follow you, too.

    Timecards, appointments, luncheons, and for God’s sake, Christmas!

    Give me a break, would you please?  I mean, the way you slip through my fingers!

    And as if the ticking tocks you whisper in my ear are not enough, you decided to line my face and give me grey my hair. 

    I need to get down and up slowly these days, and that is all because of you!

    You promised me a life, a long life with plenty of time, but here you are, stealing the moments, tracking the calendar, and honestly, I feel thrown under the bus every time I cancel a plan or run late, or just abandon ship!

    When did punctuality join this relationship? I am not into a threesome, but here we are. You, me,and having to be punctual. Well, screw that I say! Leave me to my internal clock, I don’t need you. I hate your face and the tattooed numbers around it. Every version of you brings stress and panic, fear, and internal mayhem.

    It’s easier to say tomorrow or next week, next month  –  with you – you insist on an hour and minute, I know by the hands all over your smug face. It’s the truth and you know it.

    I breathe easier without you clutching my wrist or when I “forget” to replace the battery in your giant face in the living room. I like it when you are disabled and oh-so-easy to forget!

    I can go on all day, all night about my pitiful relationship with you, but you are a giant ass-hat and when we are through you will still march on. As if I didn’t even exist for one second.

    Time heals, time repairs, time is order and time is fair. Oh, really? I don’t care.

    I am through with you and don’t forget, you heard it here first, that you are nothing more than a curse.

    You may not hear it every day. But there are sighs and cries, and dismay. 

    The only time someone has ever had anything good to say about time is THANK GOD THAT IS OVER! Whatever came their way has passed and that is the ONLY good thing about you. 

    Let’s not meet again.

    Sincerely, the best person that ever came your way. 

    Bye , Bitch!

    Read more of CM’s writing: Wild Man of the Hunt.

    Tina Riddle Deason writes under the name CM Riddle. She is an author, creator, mother, grandmamma, and a High Priestess. She has published several articles and books, including those about rituals and ceremonies. Tina lives with her husband and “fur-babies” in Rohnert Park, CA. 

    Marlene C

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  • Advice From a Dog

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

    Advice From a Dog 

    By DSBriggs

     Find yourself a good owner. In addition to catering to your every whim a good owner should incorporate these other qualities, I explain below.

     Get someone with good knees because they will need to get up and down when you want to go in and out. 

     Also someone with an opposable thumb so they can operate a can opener to serve you wet food. Which, of course, you should refuse to eat at first.

    Gradually your owner will succumb to your training. This is good when selecting snack treats. Note your owner’s preference (usually the cheapest) as the one treat you refuse. 

     Get someone who knows that there is a difference between walks: fast, get down to business or mosey which should be called nosey. Serious nose work cannot be rushed.

     Train your owner to keep their balance when you:

    a) see a squirrel

    b) see another dog

    c) spot a cat

    d) jerk from a sudden stop for a particularly interesting pee-mail. Some pee-mails take longer to decipher if multiple users have posted.

     Make sure your owner has good fingernails for applying skritches around ears. A good skritch is deep and hits the right spot. Belly rubs are an acceptable skritch replacement if you are lying down. 

     An option for you to score big time is to show preference for a yard with afternoon shade and morning sun spots. You want to have bushes for back rubs if grass is not included.

    Good water supply and quick access to the house are basic rights.

     Regarding fences, a fence will allow you more free roaming space since no fence is too worrisome for owner. They will insist you stay in the yard and away from traffic. However, if you are really lucky, and there is only a perimeter fence, you can easily access the front yard. UPS drivers have been known for carrying treats and as long as you do not harass the mailman, your front yard can provide many hours of entertainment. 

     Another trait a good owner will have is letting you have many beds. You show your greatness of heart by allowing them to call the biggest bed “their” bed. This discussion of ownership is moot, of course, if they are foolish enough to own an air or waterbed.  A good bed is soft, contains a cuddle blanket and a variety of toys. Some of you may prefer crates, but having no experience with them, I cannot advise.

     Many of you may substitute couches and chairs for your own bed, that is fine. Just be aware that having your own bed saves you from being displaced and embarrassed when rude humans take up all the room on your couch.

    Well, I have enjoyed advising you and wish you good luck in your choice of ownership.

    There are probably other pieces of advice I could impart but my nap and need for 14 hours of snooze time is just a fact of this dog’s life. 

    Dictated by Moose to his owner who is able to type and translate. Must be their opposable thumbs.

    DSBriggs and Moose live in Northern California. After retiring from teaching, DSB began writing. Marlene Cullen’s Jumpstart format of writing to a prompt in a short time period has been a perfect match. DSB’s writing appears in The Write Spot Anthologies, available from Amazon.

    Moose is DSB’s 12-year-old sugar-faced, brindle mix of lab and hound rescue. He enjoys walks and running her exercise program.

    Marlene C

  • Where I Live

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

    Where I Live

    By Ken Delpit

    When I walk into where I live, I smell memories. This is where we first beheld what would be our first and only home, from the inside. Over there was where his first, very tentative, steps took place, from the parquet mahogany coffee table to my luring, waiting hands. Right there on the carpet is where she often would get rolled up into a daughter burrito, with auntie-made birthday blanket as tortilla, and with generous gobs of tickling cheese.

    When I walk into where I live, I smell unfulfilled should-haves and wish-I-hads. I wish I had done this, that, and especially that, better as a parent, and for that matter, as a husband. I should have taken care of that household repair long ago. I should have spent more time finding and sharing fun, for fun’s sake. I should either do this once and for all, or put it out of my mind for good. I should get over not knowing then what I know now.

    When I walk into where I live, I smell winter. Until we got the piano, that’s where our live Christmas tree usually was, with its fragrant evergreen perfume bringing just a bit of northern winter indoors. This is where our menorah was placed, lit, and honored, its candle wisps and aromas catching updrafts from the old Fisher Grandpa stove, its fires crackling with family-warming energy.

    When I walk into where I live, I smell excitement, mixed with ample dashes of fear. Right there is where I stood in 1989, watching the overhead lamps sway, hearing the disconcerting noises from things that were ordinarily stone-silent, and feeling the ground lose all its certainty. I smell the fried casings of the electrical surge suppressors, which did their jobs nobly in death, from that spectacular, spiking-voltage, indoor fireworks display that one year. I smell the accidental-and-unlucky spillages from the kitchen that meant we would eat out that night. I also smell the accidental-but-happy, forgot-to-put-the-top-on-the-blender spillages that meant we could only laugh.

    When I walk into where I live, I smell love. Wholesome aromas waft steadily from the many life’s-purpose-reminding family photos that still hang on the walls. The hand-drawn and hand-painted pieces of art from our children’s lives make it gratefully impossible to pass by without returning to former times. I smell the ghosts of the many pets that once called this family theirs.

    When I walk into where I live, I smell home.

    Ken Delpit must admit: One of the real joys of writing is that it gives one a chance to say something without any back-talk—at least, for the time being. Of course, this doesn’t count his own critical sass. But that’s another subject. In the meantime, Ken enjoys the explorative nature of writing, exploring both inwards and outwards.

    Marlene C

  • Wild Man of the Hunt

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

    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.

    Marlene C