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From Armstrong to Zombies

Zombies and vampires. They're everywhere. Their invasion over the past few years has been so successful that it's impossible to escape from them.

Especially in movie theatres, libraries, and bookstores. The last time I browed through the young adult section of a bookstore, there was nothing on the shelves but ominous dark covers with blood-red titles dripping gore. I had to get out of there while I was still breathing.

Some blood-sucking author has even inflicted zombies on Jane Austen. Someone else has saddled Abraham Lincoln with vampires. As if the man didn't already carry enough of a burden, what with the Civil War and all.

It's enough to send cold shivers down the spine of a reader of plain old-fashioned murder mysteries where, when people are killed, they tend to stay dead. Though I have to admit I did read a zombie novel not long ago. I didn't mean to, honest. I thought it was science fiction. But by the time the zombies appeared, I was too far into the story to give up without finding out how it ended. (Hint: the zombies didn't die.)

What I've recently discovered, however, is that the zombie and vampire invasion may be even worse than anyone realizes. The undead may have begun infiltrating humankind much earlier than we thought.

This discovery came via a message embedded in an innocent-appearing newspaper article reporting the death of astronaut Neil Armstrong. When I read it, my blood ran cold. The piece, from the Associated Press, appeared in our local paper on Sunday, August 26. Referring to Armstrong's historic first step onto the moon on July 20, 1969, it stated: "Although more than half of the world's population wasn't alive then, it was an event that changed and expanded the globe."

Of course, it's possible that what this sentence meant to say was that half of the people living on Earth today weren't yet born in 1969.

But maybe not. Maybe there really were that many zombies, all across the planet, living secretly among us. That obnoxious kid in first grade who ate all your paste? The odd guy in high school who wore sandals with socks, even in February? That weird sociology teacher your freshman year in college? Your bullying first boss? This could explain a lot of strange people.

But it gets worse. Just think about it. These are the undead. No matter what happens to them, they keep on going, like a bunch of cuteness-challenged Energizer Bunnies. If they've been around since 1969 or earlier, a lot of them are probably collecting Social Security by now.

Taxpayers everywhere should be very afraid.

Merely Minor Minions

Gurus have disciples. Sorcerers have apprentices. Sheriffs have deputies. Priests have acolytes. Attorneys have associates. Queens have ladies in waiting. Magicians have pretty young assistants. Heroes have sidekicks. And bad guys have henchmen, flunkies, hatchet men, leg men, bag men, underlings, enforcers, and minions.

No wonder defeating the forces of evil is such a challenge, even in the movies.

This whole line of thought began a few weeks ago with the Sunday crossword puzzle. A clue of "subordinates" for seven down led us to an answer of "minions." Not the correct answer, as it turned out, which was "juniors." I found that unfortunate, since "minions" was a much more interesting word.

That same afternoon, we watched a family member onstage, playing an evil henchman. He was good enough at it to make me a tad bit uncomfortable, given that he is the father of the little person who, when he or she shows up later this year, will be my thirteenth grandchild.

So I distracted myself with important philosophical questions. Specifically, who is a more important bad guy, a henchman or a minion? This required research.

The "hench" in "henchman," I discovered, comes from an archaic term for "stallion." Therefore, a henchman was originally a horseman. A "minion," on the other hand, is described as a lackey, a toady, or an obsequious underling. Besides, a henchman can have minions, but a minion just has lesser minions. A horseman or a toady? The hierarchy seems pretty clear.

So, if you're ever engaged in a battle against the forces of evil, and you have a choice in the matter, take out the henchman first.

Don't worry about the minions. You can deal with them in just a miniouet.

Waxing and Warning

You can buy mustache wax at the drug store in Custer, South Dakota. Heck, for all I know, you can buy it at drug stores everywhere. Not having a mustache myself, thank goodness, I've never had occasion to look.

My daughter did, though. Not, I hasten to explain, that she has a mustache, either. At the moment her husband does. His most recent role at the Black Hills Playhouse, as a sword-wielding evil henchman, required a mustache, waxed to suitably swashbuckling points. It looked good on him, too.

Although, even waxed, it wasn't anywhere close to being the most memorable mustache I've ever seen. That impressive growth of facial hair decorated the upper lip of a park ranger whose location will not be revealed in case he and his mustache are still employed there.

My parents, my aunt, and I had stopped at an information center and asked this man some questions. He was tall and slim, good-looking in a middle-aged cowboy way. Though, honestly, the only thing I really remember about his appearance was that incredible mustache. Pulled out straight, it would probably have extended several inches on either side of his mouth like the whiskers of a cat. We couldn't really estimate the length, though, because each end was so tightly curled. Not just into a swoop or a partial circle, but around and around in several ever-smaller spirals. Both curls were perfectly round and symmetrical, kept in place by what must have been enough wax to polish a convertible. Whenever he spoke, those curls twitched and quivered in a most fascinating manner.

After we got back to our car, my father accused my mother and aunt of asking the man unnecessary questions just so they could watch his mustache. They didn't deny it, possibly because they were giggling too hard to say anything.

None of us, though, asked him the things we really wanted to know. Like how he managed to get those curls so perfect. Did he wind the ends around his little finger? Use bobby pins? Roll them on little tiny curlers? He presumably didn't use a curling iron; the heat would have melted the wax.

But for me, at least, the most interesting question was what that mustache must have looked like when he woke up in the morning. Did he wash off the wax and go to bed with each side of his mustache in a little braid? Or tie the ends together under his chin? Or just let the wax stick wherever it would? I had a mental picture of those careful curls, all askew, plastered crookedly to his cheeks with wax. It wasn't an appealing image.

I suppose one way to find out would be to frequent cowboy bars and look for a man with a similar mustache, then pick him up and take him home. The next morning, all my questions would be answered as soon as I woke up and put my glasses on.

But even for an inquiring mind, that would be carrying research way too far.

People Walking

There they were, as cozy as could be, obviously an item. She didn't seem to care that she was blatantly strolling down the sidewalk with someone new, only a few blocks away from the house where she lived with another man. She looked as ladylike as ever, with her thick white hair and dignified pace.

And her waving plume of a tail.

She, in this case, was the Great Pyrenees (think St. Bernard, only white and a bit less jowly) that lives along my regular walking route. I see her often, out with her owner, so it was a surprise the other day to see her with someone new.

It was even more of a surprise, a couple of blocks later, to see her walking with her owner just as usual.

Oh. I didn't know there was a second Great Pyrenees in the neighborhood. Never mind.

Watching dogs walk their people is one of the things that keeps my mind occupied while I, not having a dog to look after me, am out walking myself. There are as many different walking styles as there are breeds of dogs and body types of people.

There's the all-business chocolate lab who sets a brisk pace and is too focused on his destination to bother with being petted by strangers. The two lively little dogs, sharing the same woman with separate leashes, who are so busy trying to sniff everything that they yank her in opposite directions. The three Shelties, also with one woman but separate leashes, who trot along with such obedience and good behavior that it's almost scary. I've wondered whether drugs might be involved.

One of my favorites is the middle-sized terrier that ranges out to the end of its unreeling leash, dashing through the weeds and exploring here and sniffing there with unrelenting energy. Meanwhile, its owner ambles along in her pajama pants and flip flops, with the leash in one hand and her coffee cup in the other. There's more than one way to enjoy an early morning walk.

Earlier this summer, on a visit to Devils Tower, we saw a family heading out along the path that circles the tower. It looked like Mom, Grandma, and three kids ranging in age from about four to ten. Mom was pushing a baby stroller, one of those deluxe jobs with room for so much stuff that it would be easy to overlook the kid altogether. As we passed them, I glanced inside to see the baby.

There, in regal splendor, sat a tiny terrier, all bright eyes and brisk mustaches. Now, there was a dog that knew how to take his people for a walk.

If Dr. Seuss Made Chokecherry Jelly

The sink is pink. The stove is, too.
The countertops are splashed with goo.
Little seeds are everywhere
And pulp is spattered in my hair.

Okay, Dr. Seuss would have said it much better. Still, had he seen my kitchen last night, I think he might have been inspired. Martha Stewart, probably not so much.

One of the things I like about making chokecherry jelly is the color. The berries themselves, when fully ripe, are a deep red that is almost black. Jelly-filled jars lined up on the counter glow in the sunlight like rubies. And the juice, while it's being cooked, is a lovely, rich magenta.

It's a good thing I appreciate all that color, because the process of cooking chokecherries and squishing them to separate out the seeds certainly splashes a lot of it all over the kitchen. Besides magenta-saturated kettles, measuring cups, and spatulas, I had magenta drops on the counters. Magenta drips on the floor. Magenta spills in the sink. Magenta spatters on the window. Magenta streaks across my apron (at least I was smart enough to wear one). And, as I discovered when I cleaned up, magenta freckles on my cheeks and several blobs of magenta pulp in my hair.

Not to mention magenta-stained seeds strewn across a 15-foot radius of my work area. As I cranked the handle on the ricer to strain out the juice and pulp, seeds would periodically leap up like out-of-control popcorn kernels and make their escape. I found them at the far end of the kitchen, behind the fruit bowl on the counter I wasn't using, and under the dining room table in the next room.

If she ever makes chokecherry jelly, somehow I doubt that Martha Stewart has to pick up seeds from under her table or comb bits of pulp out of her bangs. But then, she probably wouldn't write rhymes about the process, either.

Maybe that's why I think Dr. Seuss is more fun than Mrs. Stewart.