Cockle-Warming Nostalgia and Painful Neuralgia

timbres-monster

This evening, I attempted the failing task of recalling special “Trick or Treat” rounds when was a wee lad. However my  perspective and narrative may be affected by the critter crackles from the front yard across to the woods. I don’t know exactly how many chickens are reluctant guests at Marklewood, but there is definitely a robust, focused, and somewhat aroused rooster.

The outdoor pusses seem to be leaving them alone. They have the air of not wanting to bother. I suspect though that they are visualizing extra large chicken nugget. Even after all this time spent with my various pets, I wonder about a cat’s desire to make every day special. Treats. Table scraps. Treats and table scraps. Every once in a while they remind me of their preference for premium brands for both food and litter.

As I type away, pinched nerve and all, Eve, Yorick, DeWilde, Kitty Carlisle, and their cronies are planning somme act of aggression that will end with sweet dreams of a spectacular dinner menu. The daily special is rather obvious.

Those thoughts reveal funny musings of the future. Yet, my intent was to reminisce a bit. My pinched nerve is throbbing and doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. I shall go to bed and pray that, upon awaking tomorrow, my waylaid nerve has righted its wrong. It will hopefully return the reins of my pain management. Nettie, ( I name everything!) purloined both my time and attention and, for almost two long months, has made my life “all about her!”

So if you run into me at the Harris-Teeter, feel free to inquire about my very first time. My mother had decided that I would dress as a cat … while Scott’s mother preferred that he wear a dog costume. Since Chapel Hill still had that small town feel and pace, the two of us went alone. We returned a few hours later with our grocery bags teeming with penny candy and the occasional bar.

Or you may want to ask about a particular night about fifteen years ago. While four of us sat on the floor enjoying martinis, a dear friend was dressing at home. He wrapped about twenty yards of some lacy fabric around his body. He found a well-coordinated and appropriate pair of high heels, in no less a man’s size 10. And topped it off with a blond wig and an “exuberant” turban.

As I was making sure that all the shutters were tightly shut, and that those candy-seeking invaders would skip my house. The house was dark , with stretched and eerie shadows gave the front yard definition and a Gothic feel.

You might be curious about, perhaps, some Halloween party that fell into debauchery and misbehavior. You’ll enjoy tales of ’84 in New York and those of ’95 at the beach.

Whew! And a lurking “Oh my!” is beginning to overwhelm me. Painkillers don’t even seem to give me much relief. Resting in a prone position and staying extremely still removes at least the throb. So at this earliest of morning hours, I best sign off and, walking carefully and intently, head to bed.

I can listen to the most recent “Gotham” while Jon is glued to the television.

That experience probably isn’t much different from that of my parents and grandparents. TV had yet to dawn.

Speaking of which …

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