Lost Angel: the Genius of Judee Sill

Hey Karen, Who Was Judee Sill?

This past Thursday night, I took a seat in a full auditorium at Cinema 21 to watch Lost Angel, the Judee Sill documentary. For those of you unfamiliar with her work, Sill was the first artist David Geffen signed to Asylum Records. She released two records, Judee Sill and Heart Food, neither of which sold very well. She died of a heroin overdose when she was just 35.

It is nearly impossible to describe her music because Judee Sill was singular. Her influences were classical, jazz, and sacred, which made her hard to market as an indie-folk singer/songwriter. Geffen had tremendous belief in her and her talent, but she didn’t catch on a the big way, or at all, even. She had fans like me, people who heard her in the seventies and never forgot her.

Who was Judee Sill to me?

Judee Sill felt like my own special secret. I didn’t own either of her records, but her songs were imbedded somewhere in my brain stem. Brother Steve brought her first record to me from his art school days in Minneapolis. He cranked up her eponymous debut and her overwhelming harmonies gave me the shivers. Orchestral and eerie, unsettling and beautiful.

I was not a religious kid by any means, but I experienced these songs as sacred. Soaring, swooping, then weirdly cowboy, with steel guitar and horse-hoof-clopping. Was it Western? Was it gospel? What exactly was this? Who cared, when the harmonies were so lush, the lyrics so compelling. Whether or not I believed in Heaven, I believed in music, and I knew this music was spectacular.

Part of it was her voice: beautiful tonally, but strange because it was a great big head voice forced out through a tiny opening, nasal with all the final syllables shut down tight. This live clip, where she’s singing with just the guitar, is a great way to hear what I’m talking about.

And I know she didn’t look like a star; that owlish demeanor and waif’s body, and that strange voice and unique songs. What a combination.

Who was I when I first heard her?

I was a lonely and miserable young adolescent, isolated on a ranger station and completely baffled by the idea of finding a place in the world. I talk about that here: A Hard Time. With my brother’s help, I was turning away from the teenybopper music of my childhood in search of something deeper. My favorite non-Cat-Stevens records were Ladies of the Canyon, and Something/Anything. Judee Sill fit right in.

Like Mitchell, Sill wrote intelligent, poetic lyrics, but Sill’s wandered into a mystical territory I’d never encountered before. Like Rundgren, she seemingly could write or play anything. ANYTHING. And like Todd, she was funny. The irony of her song, Jesus was a Crossmaker, delighted me at age 13. For decades, those four words echoed in my mind as the most ironic phrase I’d ever encountered.

She had a story so dark a person would be forgiven for wondering if it was made up. Brother Steve subscribed to Rolling Stone, and I read and reread the interview in which she gave the unsparing facts of her life. Teen runaway, knocking over liquor stores and shooting up in motels, reform school, conversion, then walking the streets to earn money for heroin. Another stint in jail got her clean. She came out determined to be a musician. 

A broader tale of her life would include a wealthy stepfather, time in college studying art, playing in the school orchestra, and an eventual inheritance.

Hearing her speak, reading her words

The movie showed pages of her notations, how she broke her “pop” songs into orchestral movements. The woman was writing symphonies, and, for Heart Food, conducting them. The producers who worked with her said there was little arrangement needed because she came in with all of it worked out.  

I was able to hear her speak for the first time. About half the voiceover is drawn from a long taped interview. She spoke so fast and tight, I almost missed some of what she was saying. The rest of the voiceover was a voice actor reading at a more measured pace from her journal; her dreams, her loves, her addiction and inspiration. Good God, her world was painful, but like most artists, she knew that heartbreak fueled her creativity.

The filmmaker, Brian Lindstrom, took enormous pains to corroborate the facts of her early life by showing records, press clippings, and the like. Judee Sill was exactly who she said she was. She might have expressed her goal to save humanity and be the most famous musical star there ever was, but as to her past, there was no self-mythologizing.

He spent years interviewing the many peers and friends who agreed to speak about her, her life, her music. I’m not sure the younger audience members knew who these people were, but I did. When he spoke after the film, Lindstrom shared that Linda Ronstadt spent an hour and a half on the phone with him.

He was invited to David Geffen’s home, I think in part because Geffen wanted to set the record straight. The Wikipedia page says, “Sill and Geffen’s personal relationship also deteriorated during this period, with Judee allegedly camping out on Geffen’s front lawn to protest his lack of support for her album Heart Food”. To which Geffen stated, “I don’t have a lawn.”

Sharing Judee

It was a thrill to sit in that packed theater and experience Judee Sill’s life and work with all these other people who actually knew who she was. I think you could compare it to going to church (yes, I freely blaspheme). She’d been my own for so long, It was wonderful to share her. In the fifty years since I first heard her, I’ve tried and failed to find other people who knew her work. All I had was Brother Steve.

Shawn Colvin spoke of her as an influence, which reminded me that on Cover Girl, she covered a Judee Sill song. That was back in the nineties, and when I read her name in the liner names it triggered a rush of longing in me. I called my brother and asked if he still had her album. He told me he’d sold his vinyl back when he was in college. Her music was gone. Out of print. Vanished.

Then, I think in about 2005, my brother found her music online and made me some copies. I was thrilled to have her first record, but I hadn’t heard Heart Food. I put it on, cranked it up, and thought, “Holy Christ, what has she done.” I was confused, gobsmacked, enchanted. It is stunningly beautiful and commercially unclassifiable. Her music is like nothing else. And the danger with that is, it’s not easily accessible. I understand that it is definitely not for everyone.

One of my daughters came with me on Thursday. She found the documentary fascinating and the music really strange. It is strange. It’s EERIE. The only thing I’ve ever found to compare her to is the Beach Boys, in that they were driven by one songwriter’s exacting, specific artistic vision, and have strange and swooping harmonies that sound like nothing else.

I have a friend who can’t stand the Beach Boys. They creep her out. Accordingly, I don’t expect everyone to love Judee Sill. She wore her faith on her sleeve, and crosses around her neck on the covers of both her records. I came home and asked my husband, “What if Brian Wilson had wanted to sing about God instead of surfing? What kind of career would he have had?”

What is her legacy?

During the Q&A after the film, someone said words to the effect that many artists live long enough to have a hand in crafting their legacies—she mentioned Joni Mitchell. She asked Lindstrom what she thought Judee Sill’s legacy was. The woman who asked this question didn’t seem to remember that before her health crisis and recovery, Joni Mitchell had secluded herself in the hills of LA county, embittered because she considered herself forgotten.

I told my husband about this question, and this led to a long discussion about whether or not an artist has any say at all in crafting his or her legacy. Some actively dismantle it by hanging on too long when they need to evolve with age (I brought up Madonna, in contrast to Rod Stewart, who stopped asking us if we thought he was sexy, took off the leopard Spandex and put on a suit, and moved on to standards).

Others have managed to endure with their original style long enough to survive the punchline phase of their supposed obsolescence (he brought up Cher). We wondered about artists whose legacy is so compromised by their personal behavior (Woody Allen, Michael Jackson). Their unquestionably brilliant bodies of work are tainted, as is the audience enjoyment of them.

So does the artist really have a conscious hand in crafting his legacy beyond the work left behind? Or will it be determined by the audience, not the artist?

I saw Mozart’s Requiem at the Oregon Symphony last weekend. When the choir sang out “Kyrie Eleison,” I didn’t think of the ancient mass. I thought of Judee Sill’s strange, haunting The Donor.

That’s a legacy, isn’t it? When Mozart reminds you of someone newer, instead of the other way around?

I heard The Donor in the mid 2000s, forty years after it was released. That’s about the time a friend played a song on YouTube for Brian Lindstrom, and he was hooked. Fifty years after her first album, he has released a labor of love that celebrates her. I hope this film will solidify her legacy and grow her fan base.

I can’t help but wonder which Judee Sill song Lindstrom heard first. Thursday night he said, “I can never fast forward through The Kiss.” Maybe it was that one. It’s a wonder.

More reading if you’re curious

A friend describes her life, and answers the mystery of how she supported herself when the music career failed: https://www.kneeling.co.uk/pages/jsill/rememberingjudee.php

Features on the documentary:



Vintage Postcards: Happy Easter from the Egg People!

Big Egg Heads and Horrible Elves.

Vintage Postcards..they never disappoint. I thought we would start with what appears to be the work of a single illustrator – the Giant Egg Heads, and the Elves Who Torment Them.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Poking a blade of grass into the nostril of a giant egg person who clearly has allergies!

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Tarting up a giant egg head with provocative red lip paint and card symbols! So these little elves are procurers, egg panderers.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Tugging the moustaches and yanking the spectacles of a giant egg head person! These elves are are sadists, procurers, and jerks. What is with these elves? What did the giant egg head people ever do to them?

Happier Eggs, strolling.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Look at this happy little egg lady, out for a stroll. She’s working her eggs, pattern-mixing and all! She’s so well put-together that the hares are looking at her through binoculars, which is weird because she’s not that far away, and they look kind of snotty. I don’t really care about those sarcastic rabbits because I feel like this little egg lady is really looking good.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Just a couple of eggs, out for a stroll. Well, more than a couple, since these egg people are articulated like wasps. I’m not sure why they have zombie hands.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

This egg stroll looks like a would-be egg people love triangle. The more military eggs seems to be sweet on that hardboiled egg lady in the middle. She only has eyes for her child, the tinier ovum who bears her a little nosegay. Because eggs love their baby eggs, as you can see below.

Random Eggs

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

Isn’t that a cozy scene. It’s weird enough to see an egg knitting booties, but she looks a little old to be a mom. Aren’t eggs supposed to get, you know, too old? Or is that just human eggs?

Playing Cards. Is that part of Easter?

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

I thought I’d close with some Easter Pulchritude.

Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain
Vintage Easter Egg postcard, public domain

You’re welcome. Happy Easter.

A little cancer talk, and a little more talk about books.


A vintage ad for Hanes stocking.
One way to achieve discretion! A pile of books!

Bear with me, folks. This starts out heavy and ends up happy.

For readers here, it probably seems as if there is nothing I won’t discuss, but that is not true. I’ve written about losing my mother twenty years ago, but not the small cell carcinoma esophageal cancer that killed her.

I’ve only referred obliquely to the medical crisis my birth father endured five years before he finally died of metastatic prostate cancer, and haven’t written at all about the pain he suffered at the end.

I haven’t talked about my father’s lung cancer, which he was too weak to treat with surgery, so they killed off the spiky tumor with radiation and called it good. That is not what killed him (that was what they used to call galloping emphysema).

I haven’t spoken in depth about the kidney cancer and rectal cancer that were part of the constellation of illnesses that eventually killed my beloved Brother Steve; the first dealt with by removing a kidney (they were both useless but one was cancerous) and the second treated with radiation because like Dad, my brother was far too weak for any more surgery.

I also haven’t talked about how I spent a good portion of last year helping my sister deal with breast cancer. I didn’t write a peep about it. That’s possibly out of consideration for her privacy, and probably because it was all so damn hard. I don’t know. But for the record, it was estrogen-responsive, with a small, contained tumor that nonetheless released micromets to several of her lymph nodes.

Lumpectomy, removal of affected nodes, radiation, and she was done. Does that sound easy? I think if you had another kind of breast cancer, and you had to have mastectomies and chemo, it probably sounds easy. It was not. It was hell for her, emotionally and physically.

All I could do was be there for every scan and consultation, driving her here and there, waiting with my nephew during the surgery, just being present as best as I could. My nephew took her to all the radiation appointments. I came for the last one so I could watch her ring the bell that signaled the end of her treatments. 

This year.

She had six-month scans on Thursday, and everything came back with “no evidence of disease, see you in a year.” There was a little party in that imaging facility lobby in the Phil Knight Cancer Center, let me tell you, with me sending a photo of this little sheet of paper to my girls and my nephew.

Maybe that’s why we were in such good moods when we saw the surgeon. In fact, I would say that my sister and I were downright boisterous when he arrived to look over his handiwork. This has not been our mood in general while consulting with this doctor. There have been times when the atmosphere has been suspicious, disappointed, downright furious.

There is nothing like a no-evidence-of disease to lift the room.

He was explaining my sister’s minimal asymmetry and estimated her cup size. She said, “You’re good at that. I bet you’re a hoot at parties.” I said, “Yes, is that your party trick, like the guess-my-weight at the fair?” and he absolutely cracked up.

He can be boyish, this surgeon, with a gee-willikers enthusiasm for the technological gizmos that make his work easier. This attitude is sometimes at odds with the emotional state of his patients. But in general, he’s fun, for a surgeon. Perhaps that’s why he sat down facing me and said, “If you want to know what I’ve done with my spare time, I wrote a book. It’s about the fifty worst movies of all time.”

Well, I had my phone out and Amazon up in a heartbeat, and before he’d finished issuing his disclaimer that he loves bad puns, which might inhibit my enjoyment of the book, I’d found and ordered it. Then I told him I’d written one nonfiction book called Shopping at the Used Man Store. He loved the title.

So after additional exchanges of publishing information and general bonhomie, he told my sister that the physician’s assistant would be right in to check her out, and he’d see her in a year.

A year. Can you imagine? A year. We were nearly crying with relief. So we sat there, relieved and waiting. And waiting. And wondering what was taking so long.

Finally, the PA arrived, and let us know that they’d been busy looking up my book? And that’s why we’d been sitting there? And apparently now the medical staff is going to be reading about my internet dating adventures? In a book that is so explicit, frank, and unsparing that my husband—my loyal and supportive husband who has read every word of all five Gentry books, and that is a LOT of words—refuses to read it?

Well! Wow!

I came home in a panic and decided to reread the book, and I decided that was fine. It’s actually hilarious. The only problem is, I wrote most of it when I was in my forties, and published it in my fifties, and now I’m in my sixties. I’m not exactly the toothsome specimen I was back then, so reading about all these men who called me beautiful makes me think, “What, were they all blind?”

And then I remember that I was twenty years younger, in my prime, really, that second bloom of beauty many women have in their forties that gave rise to the term MILF in the first place. Which made me glad I wrote all that down, to be honest. Because that bloom is past and now I have a record of how I wasted it on a bunch of pointless internet dates.

Anyway, I have another point.

Which is that I’ve read a couple of undersung nonfiction books this past year that I enjoyed, so here they are.

June Underwood

Sculpting the Mist: Reports from Elderhood, 2019 – 2021

I believe this book was drawn from letters to her daughter, and it’s a thoughtful, intelligent look at that part of aging where everything is more fragile; health, bodies, bones, memory.  I’m not there yet, but of course I will be in ten years if I’m lucky. Part of this was written during the pandemic shutdown. I feel like the truest accounts of that strange time will be found in memoirs like this. Fiction will make it beautiful, but the strange, daily parts are best captured by regular people living regular lives.

It’s not all aging and COVID, though. It’s a portrait of a very specific Portland neighborhood—Montavilla—which I loved reading, since Montavilla has really changed in the 40+ years I’ve lived in the Portland area. The author’s love for her daughter shines through the entire book. She’s also an artist, so you have insight into her creative process.

Orrin Onken

Why Old People are Mean: Essays on Aging, Retirement, and Life

I first read Mr. Onken years ago, when my sister pressed her copy of Malady Manor on me. She said it captured the process of alcoholism and recovery better than anything she’d ever read. I was writing Kathryn Mumford at the time and my sister thought it would help. I’m not sure the story of a disbarred/reinstated attorney in Portland, Oregon was exactly key to writing Kathryn’s recovery, but I loved it.

Why Old People are Mean is a slim collection of his best Medium pieces, written after his retirement from practicing elder and family law. His deadpan sense of humor is just my style. Orrin Onken is the only reason I still subscribe to Medium.

And of course I must plug my own book! With the proviso that I am also old now! You will laugh, you will cry, you will crawl on your belly like a reptile.

cover of "Shopping at the Used Man Store" by Karen G Berry.

Shopping at the Used Man Store

This is me at my worst, which might be my best, don’t you think?

Oh, and! The good doctor’s book has not arrived yet, but I am fairly sure my husband I will both love it:

Bombs Away: Fifty Old, Bombs Away: Fifty Old, Often Bad, and Mostly Forgotten Films, in No Particular Order

I hope you enjoy all these books, and please, if you haven’t, get SATUMS because it’s so damn funny. Thank you.



Image by photosforyou from Pixabay

I’m reading Through the Garden by Lorna Crozier, the Canadian poet, writer, teacher—this woman has worked hard at her craft for decades, and it shows in whatever I might write after her name. She uses a mix of memoir and poetry to portray a passionate marriage with another writer, Patrick Lane. His death is the framework on which she’s told the story of their life together (with cats).

She stopped me cold with her thoughts on gates.

All gates herald a transition: a movement from outer to inner and back again, a passage to something that needs protection from invaders, a step into a space defined as different and more valued than what is on the other side. They’re an invitation but also an impediment. Signalling a need for privacy, this gate would make visitors pause, hesitate, delay, before they walked through. Some might choose to turn around and not enter the private enclosure presaged by such an imposing construction. Just as well. Something is being protected, secluded, differentiated from what’s on the other side. Something is being sanctified. Is the time we have left what is being sheltered? Isn’t there a holiness to our diminishing days?

Yes, I thought, yes, that’s it, that’s perfect.

As his health failed, she and her husband commissioned a Torii- style gate built with special timbers that required curing, and a complex hand-forged latch that took months to arrive. They were intentional about the design and construction, making it perfect as if as if they had all the time in the world. They did not, of course, but that was no deterrent.


When I bought this house in 1988, there were two gates into the backyard. The fence on the east side stretched between my neighbor’s sturdy, enviable, indestructible cyclone fence and my house. My fence’s gate was originally wide enough to allow the entrance of a vehicle, but the growth of trees eventually blocked the path. That fence/gate combo blew down, and then it fell down, so I leaned it against the house with a shrug and carried on with my life.

On the west side of the house was a narrower span of fence, also with a gate. It connected to the house on one side and on the other, a post planted right next to a big, thriving, shiny-leaved laurel hedge. Those laurel hedges really grow. They grow and grow and grow! Eventually, this hedge ate the gate.

So much for my gates.


You might wonder, is my yard open? No, not really. The east side is currently gated with a really shabby combo of sagging wire fence and a hinged panel from a portable dog yard. Some sagging wire fencing runs around the west side and joins up with my back neighbor’s sagging wire fence to create a putative barrier we call “the dog fence.” So technically, my back yard is both fenced and “gated,” with materials that do very little to keep out the wildlife that wants in.

The fence is only tall enough to impede very small dogs with no interest in athletic leaping. I have no dogs, but I keep it for my grand-dog, Marlowe. He inspects the fence boundaries when he visits. He reinforces ownership with liberal marking.

It’s a lot of work to create a scent barrier, especially now that he’s getting older, but he does his best to let the coyotes, raccoons, skunks and rodents know that the yard belongs to us. He understands this part of Lorna Crozier’s words: All gates herald a transition: a movement from outer to inner and back again, a passage to something that needs protection from invaders, a step into a space defined as different and more valued than what is on the other side.

I appreciate him. He is our protector.


Oddly, these crappy gates and fences don’t bother me. With all the critters out there, you’d think I’d be interested in having a fenced back yard, but instead, I want to fence off a little space between my house and garage. This is the area I see when I sit on my postage-stamp-sized front porch. It has vexed me from the beginning, when it was a small grassy slope with a three-foot high maple tree.

Over the years, I tried different ways to make this space into something besides a shaded place that was impossible to mow. I planted many bushes that died in this space, and also many flowers that died. The only thing that’s grown is the maple tree, which is now over thirty feet tall. We are continuously hacking off limbs to keep it from ruining the new roofs.

Even though it’s currently a mess (let’s face it, my entire yard is always a mess), I have come to love this space. I hired an absolutely insane woman to build me a retaining wall here, and even though the dirt is bad and the maple is a gutter-clogging, roof-ruining nuisance, it pleases me. I sit on the porch and look at the planters full of weeds and the weeds poking up through the gravel beds and the weeds growing in the pile of decorative rocks I have yet to spread and…I smile. I imagine all sorts of things I could do to improve it, and I never do those things.

I even had the idea to build a fence on its far side, a fence that would stretch between the front corner of the house and the back corner of the garage, connecting them to enhance the sense of enclosure. The east side (where my porch is) would remain completely open. The fence would make it nice and cozy. I would want a gate there, too, a pretty gate that would lead into this half-finished area of wrack and ruin.

I explained this to my oldest daughter, excitedly sketching out my ideas, and she listened. When I finished, she simply asked, “Why?”

I really couldn’t come up with a good answer.


My daughter’s question is a valid one. It’s a needed interrogation of a flawed idea that appears to hold no value at all, because there’s nothing on the other side of this imaginary fence and gate. Just that tremendous laurel hedge and a strip of weedy gravel (I specialize in weedy gravel, it’s my landscape design signature). I’m not sure why this area would need to be reached through a gate that literally no one would ever walk through.

No one walks around over there besides the owner of the laurel hedge on his yearly trek to keep it trimmed. He owns the property next door, where the hedge originates. He used to ignore my side of it, and it cost a lot to have it cut, so I could only have it trimmed every few years (hence, it ate the gate). I think he became afraid that I would cut it back to the property line, which would possibly kill it. So he took over trimming, which is fine, but there’s always that awkward space of time when I can see him in my back yard on the other side of the dog fence, clipping away.

This is awkward because he is awkward. I am the opposite of awkward, but I stopped saying hello to him because he is so pained by me. He’s never once made eye contact, let alone had a conversation with me. Luckily, I got married five years ago and he will speak to my husband. His big conversational gambit was, “Are you the property owner?” Apparently the property had no owner during the previous decades, but there’s a man here now, so whatever.

When he’s in the backyard, I close the shades.


Back to my idea of a fence and a gate. I still want my gate, which leaves me over here grasping for an explanation.

I think it has to do with this part of Lorna Crozier’s thoughts on gates. They’re an invitation but also an impediment. Signalling a need for privacy, this gate would make visitors pause, hesitate, delay, before they walked through. Some might choose to turn around and not enter the private enclosure presaged by such an imposing construction. Just as well. Something is being protected, secluded, differentiated from what’s on the other side.

Protected, secluded, differentiated. I think I understand. What’s on the other side is just…me. I would be inside this gate. I am less concerned with what’s without than what’s within. The gate would not be there to keep anyone out. It wouldn’t enclose a secret garden, because gardens need weeding and I’m clearly terrible at that. But it would feel protected, I think. A different kind of garden. The gate would be there to enclose me, to mark off and protect a place I love.

Who knows.

It might even sanctify the holiness of my diminishing days.

The Rocking Chair

The Sugarbush Rocker by Nichols & Stone

In the 1950s and 60s, there were two predominant design styles for the American housewife; Midcentury Modern, and Early American. My mother liked the Early American aesthetic. She had picked up plenty of antiques at farm auctions and sales, and balanced them with modern reproductions. Mom only liked “really good” pieces.

She also sold furniture for a time, so she developed strong brand loyalties based on quality. One brand she admired was Nichols and Stone. Over her life, she had five pieces from this time-honored company, including a Sugarbush rocker she bought in the early 1970s.

The Sugarbush rocker had a very thick white pine seat with deeply carved indentations for a comfortable sit. The rest of the rocker was made of birch, including the high back with curved slats. It was usually offered in a dark oak finish, and stenciled in the best tradition of Early Americana with gold lines and a cornucopia across the headrest.

The Sugarbush starts to Spread

Mom was proud of this rocker. It sat nicely in her living room on the huge oval braided rug that was our carpet for my early teen years. It wasn’t just Mom, though. We all loved that chair. My teenage boyfriend really loved it. I suspect (no—I am dead certain) that he was on the spectrum, so maybe that’s why he loved it. Rocking, etc.

When we married in 1978, he received a large check ($150.00!) from someone on his side of the family. This huge sum demanded to be invested. We always rented furnished places, but we decided buy our very own Sugarbush. Off we went to the furniture store in Missoula, where for $165.00, we had our own. It had a lighter colored finish, possibly intended to be maple-like, and it was distressed (fancy!). This meant some knicks and dents, one of which had a little wood filler in it.

I thought this was fantastic. My then-husband was delighted to have his own rocker. He would come home from work, sit down, and fire up his bong. After he was sufficiently toasted, he would slurp down several bowls of cereal while I made dinner. Good times.

When he wasn’t sitting in it, our dilute calico, Shasta, would hop up into the seat and ask me to rock her. When I obliged, she’d slip and slide herself into a happy, writhing trance. The harder I rocked, the happier she was. Shasta was a tense, neurotic cat, but in that rocker? She was loopy and hilarious.

So Long, Sugarbush

When I left Montana, I took the cats, but I had to leave the rocker. No more Sugarbush for me. My loss was all the more poignant because a year earlier, when my sister married for the first time, my parents bought one for her, too. Hers had the dark oak finish without the stenciling. The women in my family had all owned giant microwaves and Sugarbush rockers. Now, I was just down to the microwave.

Scant years later, when I was pregnant, Mom loaned me hers. That rocker was where I rocked my first baby, the generous arm the perfect height for mine, where I cradled her head while nursing. My second child seemed to hate being rocked. She was a little goer, a mover and a shaker, and the rocker didn’t do a thing for her. So my parents reclaimed their rocker, and my household was without for a few years.

Luckily, by the time I had my third baby, my sister had fully embraced vintage Mid-century. Her house was a trove of the streamlined and atomic. “Do you want this?” she asked one day, pointing to her rocker. I sure did.

One More Round

It looked out of place with my own décor, which was pink and khaki, very southwest-inspired. I didn’t have a print of a howling coyote on the wall, but I had a print of a cactus. I’m not apologizing, as this describes many 1990 living rooms. That dark rocker didn’t fit in at all, but there was no other chair that could hold me so comfortably as I nursed my last baby.  

Eventually, my parents unloaded theirs. They might have given it to my older brother, or sold it, I’m not sure. It disappeared at some point. I kept my sister’s rocker. It moved from one room of my house to another. It was perfect for watching TV or reading alone in my room. It even served as a desk chair for a while. Eventually, after much wear and tear, it was demoted to the garage.

Where it Sat for Decades

When my last baby grew up and was pregnant with my first grandchild, I offered the old rocker to her.  We went out to take a look at it. Scarred, one arm wobbly, creaky, it looked pretty rough. I realized it was at fifty years old. She politely declined and I didn’t blame her.

It was like when I offered my mom’s wedding rings to my middle daughter when she was getting married. She popped into my room, found the ring, took a look, and politely declined. I had a mental image of that elegant white gold set with its knife-edge detail. Mom wore that set every day for thirty-five years, and it showed. The prongs were dangerously worn and the knife edge was smoothed. I had no idea. My mental image, formed when I was nine years old, hadn’t aged a bit. My oldest daughter wanted a very fine, rounded white gold band when she got married, so she took the band, and I recently had the diamond reset.

BUT I DIGRESS. AS I ALWAYS DO. This is about rockers. And one Nichols and Stone Sugarbrush is still out there in my garage. It needs repair, refinishing, it’s Early American. But maybe someday it will rock me again. Maybe on a front porch, or a back porch, and it will render me quaint. I will take up knitting, and quote the Bible. Or perhaps I’ll subvert gendered expectations and whittle charming hickory animals for my grandchildren and drink shine from a jug perched on my shoulder. Perhaps a banjo will be involved, or a fiddle.

Who knows what the future holds.

It’s the last Sugarbush in the family, and I’m not giving it up.

More info/if you want your own

Nichols and Stone went out of business in 2008 after 151 years in business. My Google searches mostly found some scraped together AI crap. “Pine seat” became “Pine seed” and so on. This reader comment at CollectorsWeekly.com seems to have the best information:

The 546 Sugarbush Rocker was introduced into the Nichols & Stone line circa 1970. The thick seat is made of White Pine and the structural members of the chair are made of Birch. The design continued in production through the 1980’s. This design was finished in a solid wood tone color stain and an optional stenciling application could be applied for an upcharge. The Sugarbush Rocker was the most popular selling item for Nichols & Stone in the 1970’s. It was named after Sugarbush Mountain in Warren VT.

You’d think if it was that most popular item they sold, the secondhand market would be swarming with them. These are completely out of fashion and basically indestructible! And yet, I found exactly one for sale. There might be some out there on Marketplace or Craigslist. I’m not sure. But here is one on Mercari:


1st Dibs has nice photos, but does not have one for sale, which is fine because their prices tend to be unrealistic: 


Anyway, I’ll keep looking. Maybe I’ll find one like my wedding rocker.

Happy New Year!

Tuberous Greetings

vintage new year postcard potato man

Nothing says “Happy New Year” like a misshapen potato playing at dandyism with boots, hat, and umbrella, am I right? His trailing roots add a special festive touch. I also found a pickle man, but couldn’t capture the image for you (so sorry). I just showed this to my husband because it’s the weirdest one I found, and he said, “It seems like in the not-too-distant past, vegetables had more active social lives.” (So you can see why I married him).

And speaking of anthropomorphism…

vintage new year postcard - kissing bottles

Okay, that is almost as cute as it is weird. Like, getting so drunk that you drop your glass and kiss the whiskey when you’re clearly Chianti. Does that seem like you’re thinking of Glad Memories and Future Hopes? Or are you just trying to blot out a terrible year with some cross-spirits over-indulging? Either way, these tipsy bottles send New Year Greetings to one and all.

There’s also this one…

vintage new year postcard - giant wasp

There’s nothing anthropomorphized here. Just a giant wasp, its barbed tail curled and ready to strike, determined to wish you a “Joyous New Year” by stinging these innocent tots in their middy blouses and sailor suits.

I’m looking for deeper symbolic meaning here, like, the wasp is the old year, chasing away the new year as symbolized by these children? And there’s another umbrella for whatever reasons (the potato man is also holding an umbrella). Does the umbrella mean anything? So many mysteries, lost to Time’s unending march…

On to Happy New Year and Pigs.

This is German. I’d know that even if I didn’t recognize the phrase, which translates as Happy New Year, but looks like I’m being wished a Frolicsome new year, which sounds more fun.

vintage new year postcard - happy cooked pig

It’s the roasted pig on foot that gets me. He’s already roasted, so wouldn’t this be a New Year’s Pig Zombie? Right? There’s an old ad for sausage where the pig is slicing its own middle into perfectly round slices of sausage. This Neujahr Greeting reminds me of that, as if the pig is willingly participating in his own slaughter by running along with carving tools in his back. So weird, so German.

If the pig must be running, I prefer this:

vintage new year postcard - good luck sleigh ride

“Happy driving in the New Year.” Can’t you just hear the song that goes with this? Dashing through the snow / in a four pig open sleigh / mushroom by my side, and hey…why is that crow wearing pants? I’m not sure, but those piggies look as focused as sled dogs, really giving their all to the Swine Iditarod, or whatever this is. Clearly, pigs have skills.

vintage new year postcard - a monkey and a pig

“Feliz Ano Nuevo.” This one is in Spanish, I can tell that even without Google’s help. This is one fierce pig, just look at the intense focus in his wee piggy eyes. He’s been trained by a chimp, and we all know how smart chimps are. But again, my friend April, the vegetarian, is always telling me how smart pigs are, and how sweet, and how pigs have surprising skills.

I just reply, “Bacon.” But anyway…

I think this next card is taking it too far. I don’t know what language this “Boldog Ujevet” greeting is in, and if I weren’t so lazy I’d Google it (okay I Googled it and it’s Hungarian), but this is a dark, dark story, here.

vintage new year postcard - romantic chimney sweep with his piggy gf

That man clearly has designs on the piggy in the ruffled apron and fetching pink shoes. He appears to be a chimney sweep, what with the ladder and broom. So he’s going to clean the chimney, get her drunk and do something bestial before roasting her in the newly cleaned fireplace.

And then I thought, no, this is an even darker story of survival at all costs. A subversive effort on the part of the pig. She (or possibly he, it might be a male pig disguising himself as a sow because desperate times call for desperate measures) is going to use its porcine wiles so as to avoid being dinner. Get that sweep drunk and shove him and his Boldog Ujevet right up his own damn chimney. Start a fire and say, “Oh heavens no, I didn’t know he was up there!”

I’m cheering on this pig. Like I said, pigs have skills.

Unless they’re drunk.

vintage new year postcard - party at my sty

It’s a Piggy Party! This one is pretty funny, especially when you see the boy holding the switch gazing lovingly at the drunken pigs. Why is he so happy? He came out there to beat them into their sty (see: switch), and there they are drunk out of their little piggy brains. It’s a happy story! No pigs will die! He’s too charmed to even beat them! Oh, those silly pigs!

A drunken pig must be a sign of good fortune in the year to come. Why else would so many of us transform ourselves into drunken pigs on NYE? (Not me, we will be lucky to make it to ten PM, I’m a sleepy pig).

In closing…

vintage new year postcard - froggy pops the cork

This grinning frog and I wish you a Happy New Year full of many symbols of good fortune, including keys and mushrooms and four-leaf shamrocks and horseshoes, and of course (if you drink it), champagne. It’s been a difficult year for too many people I care about, which means it’s been difficult for me, but only because I care. My husband and I are fortunate enough to end this year healthy and happy and surrounded by family and friends. For that, I’m incredibly grateful.

Here’s to 2024!

Christmases Past

Merry Christmas!

Four siblings celebrating Christmas Eve in 1980 with our buttons. My brothers and I were really into big pin-on buttons, and my sister liked the small ones with ironic sayings, preferably regarding rock and roll. One of those is possibly hiding on the lapel of her velvet blazer.

Even if I didn’t give you the dates, you should be able to place this as the late 70s/early 80s by the frames of those magnificent glasses. This was taken at my parents’ home in Portland, a split-entry Capp Home they somehow put together from piles of lumber dumped at a muddy lot. We were all briefly jammed in there at this point, a situation that really couldn’t last.

I was 20, which would make my younger brother 9, my sister 23 by a single day, and my older brother 26. Babies, all of us. I believe I was still legally married to my first husband at this point, and I would have my first date with my second husband that coming New Year’s Eve. My third husband is probably reading this, and he dislikes reading about any men in my past. Honey, you know I love you best and always.

The kitty was Casey Jones of the golden yellow eyes and the rip-snorty purr.

An Earlier Christmas

Me and my mom, Christmas morning of 1979. This year, my mother, sister and I had matching robes (Cat’s was green). We celebrated in Eugene, where my sister lived with her first husband. I was nineteen, still married, still living in Montana, and profoundly unhappy. I would make my big break that next year, and head to Portland to reinvent myself. I would also cut off my hair.

An even earlier Christmas…

I was twelve here, and my sister was fifteen. We were living on Pine Street in Booneville, Arkansas. Our mom was in the hospital for this Christmas, so it was a low-key affair, and of course it was probably seventy-five degrees because Arkansas didn’t have a winter as far as we could tell. This was quite different for us, as we’d grown up in South Dakota and Minnesota. We loved wearing summer clothes on Christmas Day.

A friend of mine said once that we looked like we were tying bows with our prehensile toes, which made me giggle and still makes me smile when I look at our bare feet.

Speaking of South Dakota…

My sister and me at our grandparents’ farm house in 1966 or 1967, I’m not sure. I think 66. You can’t see it, but I’m wearing my favorite hair barrette in this photo..a pink dog, sort of reclining, with google eyes. My mother made the dress I’m wearing, and my sister’s dress is store-bought. The next year, I’d wear that pretty plaid number for the holidays, but a few years later I’d catch up and no longer wear her hand-me-downs.

My grandparents had an artificial tree trimmed with gold glass beads, gold satin balls, red velvet bows and spun cotton birds with real feathers. I found it unspeakably elegant. For this photo, we were instructed to hold our favorite presents. I selected my smallest gift, because I always loved miniature things. We opened presents on Christmas Eve following an all-white Norwegian dinner. I found Christmas Eve to be the longest day of the year.

This year.

I’m going to see the whole troop, since all my kids and their kids live in the Portland area again. The trees are trimmed and the presents are wrapped. The menu is planned but not provisioned, but I have days left to get that done.

I hope you all have a wonderful, magical, rambunctious and/or peaceful holiday. I’m hoping for all of the above.

Past Christmas posts:

What’s with those Christmas Lights?

Christmas Travel and the Christmas Fairy

Cats and Creches

A Short History of Frosty Windows

The Frost

(from a Katrina writing prompt, The Frost)

Image by Frauke Riether from Pixabay

The frost is here, and I want to park in my garage. I have rarely, if ever parked in my garage. Let’s take a look at why.

When my then-husband and I bought the house in 1988, my father broke a sliding screen, and his father immediately broke the lock on the garage door. I’m not exactly sure how. He manhandled something. After that the bolt never worked right. Rather than throwing ourselves against the stubborn thing, or paying someone to repair it, we mostly kept it bolted. The door is an old one, made of wood, and very heavy.

I could have parked in the garage, but I was a young mother with young children. Imagine a young mother pulling up to that garage in her minivan.  I wasn’t going to get out of my car, walk around to the back of the freestanding garage, make my way through it, use an enormous amount of strength to unbolt the door, then get back in, drive in, pull the door down, bolt it, get the kids out of their car seats and shepherd them through the garage and up some steps and over to the front door.

I didn’t use the garage.

This meant my car windows were often frosty on wintry mornings. But the nice thing about being a stay-at-home mother whose kids ride the school bus was that the sun took care of it for me. Frost melted away before I ever started up my minivan.

My ex did sometimes park in the garage, but once he moved out, that didn’t mean it was empty. It was stuffed full of his possessions for a good seven years after he left. Once I sold all of his remaining items at a garage sale, my sister sensed an opportunity. I wouldn’t call her a hoarder, but given a chance, she would completely fill up other people’s storage; my garage, her friend’s basement, wherever she lived, and of course, she also had two storage spaces. My sister had quite a longstanding love affair with my garage. I was always trying to get her stuff out of there.

So I could, you know, park my car in there.

During the ten or so years she monopolized the garage, I became an expert at scraping my windshield. I was working an office job, so I would go out and scrape, scrape, scrape my windows, and run the defroster, and curse my life and grumble about my sister at 6am on a cold Oregon morning.

I had good scrapers and bad scrapers. The best was a thin blue tool about the size of my palm and not much thicker than a business card. It was a freebie from my health insurance company during a benefits fair at the office. I almost didn’t take it because it looked flimsy. But during the three years I used it, it peeled off the frost with a scalpel’s precision and a blowtorch’s efficacy. Then it snapped in half.

After some rather dire threats, my sister finally removed her belongings from my garage. This was a difficult time in our relationship, but she rode the bus out and got to work, and she hauled and donated and finally, my garage was empty enough to park in. If I’d wanted to bother with that heavy, malfunctioning garage door, I could have started each day with clear car windows and saved myself all that bother. But I didn’t, so I still parked outside.

A helpful gift

While I was dating [Redacted], he found it upsetting that I didn’t park in my garage. I’d go so far as to say it was an affront to him. But once he’d lifted that heavy door a few times, he understood why I didn’t want to. So for my birthday, he helped me clear out my garage and then bought and installed a garage door opener for me.

This was truly a halcyon time in that relationship. Together, we enjoyed cleaning out that garage, getting rid of an old wooden bed frame I’ve written about (but not posted), clearing shelves of the many many things left by the man who built the house in 1984 ([redacted] took a lot of that, to squirrel away in his own stuffed-full garage), and rooting out the last of my sister’s belongings, because they haunted the corners.

The opener was a real gift. It made parking in the garage so easy. I loved it. I enjoyed frost-free car windows for five years. Five years of not having to scrape a windshield. It was heaven, I tell you. And then, my guy moved in. We began to commute together. In his car. Which was parked in the driveway. Where the windows frosted in the winter.

You see where this is going.

I spoke the words of self-sacrifice. “You should park in the garage. That way, your windows won’t be frosty.” That was mutually beneficial until 2020. We both worked from home that year. But in 2021, he began working somewhere else and I had to commute in my own car again. Which was parked in the driveway. With frosty windows, in the wintertime. But I still worked from home half the time the time. He had to go to the office every morning, so it only seemed fair to spare him the scraping.

Why didn’t we both park in the garage? Well, one daughter put a big ass desk in there. She just dumped it in my garage one day, and she left it. It was there for one year. And then it was there for two years.  “Honey, will you get that desk out of there?” “Sure. But I don’t have anywhere to put it.” “Well can you come get it?” “No, you should sell it.” We finally hauled it to the curb and gave it away. This cleared a lot of space, but not quite enough. With a little compression, donation, and rearrangement, we were almost there.

I could practically taste those frost-free windows.

It was going to happen!

Three weeks later, my youngest daughter and her son moved in with us. Guess where her stuff landed? Yes. That’s right. In the garage, where my car would be parked.

I work in the office three days a week. Most of the time, I’m fine parking in the driveway. But on mornings when it’s dark and cold, I approach my car with trepidation. Will there be frost? I replaced my nimble blue ice scraper with an orange behemoth of a tool that looks like I could use it to strip paint off a submarine. It is almost useless on a curved surface.

Another winter of frosty windows. But it’s so fun to have my daughter and grandson here that I really don’t mind at all.

The Whale, and taking things personally.

I’ve not seen The Whale, but here’s my review.

Sculpture of beautiful fat woman at Lake Constance
Image by photosforyou from Pixabay

Darren Aronofsky’s The Whale is on streaming, now. It is supposedly a moving look at one man’s extreme obesity, caused by self-loathing over the abandonment of his family for a male lover. He’s killing himself with food out of grief and guilt. Sounds like a real feel-good flick.

Since I’m fat, I should probably watch it, but I was angry at this movie before I ever read a review for it. On Rotten Tomatoes, the critical consensus was pun-heavy: “Held together by a killer Brendan Fraser, The Whale sings a song of empathy that will leave most viewers blubbering.” Really?

Aronofsky Grotesky

Based on my sole experience with his work (Mother!) I assumed Aronofsky would handle this plot with a deft mixture of bombast, grotesquerie, and mental decay. My psyche still hasn’t recovered from Mother!, but the story here was not about how much psychological torture the director could inflict on his lead female character. No, the big story here was Brendan Fraser’s comeback.

Brendan Fraser had a decent Hollywood career, but gained a lot of weight after being groped by a producer type at a Hollywood party. I read his account of this assault. It was invasive and traumatic. It’s also familiar. I could rattle off a string of events like this in my own life, both verbal and physical. So could any other woman reading this.

Trauma and Fat

It may or may not be true, but it’s a common observation that traumatized women hurt themselves, and traumatized men hurt others. Fraser hurt himself. I wish he’d sued the guy instead, like Taylor Swift when that old DJ went under her dress to fondle her butt. She filed suit, testified, and publicly refused to take any blame whatsoever for his ruin, insisting that everything that happened to him was his own fault for taking it upon himself to grope her.

Fraser hasn’t even named the man who assaulted him. Instead, he withdrew and got fat, but apparently not fat enough. Aronofsky outfitted him with a prosthetic suit to approximate weighing 600 pounds. The weight was set by the source material, a play by Samuel D. Hunter, who also wrote the screenplay. Still, I wonder if this amount of obesity was really necessary. It doesn’t take 450 pounds of extra weight to crush a person’s self esteem.

The Celebrity Penalty

Sometimes it only takes ten pounds to convince a person that she must starve her body into submission. Just ask Britney Spears, who was publicly humiliated for showing off a five pound weight gain after her second child. I mean, how dare she. A modest weight gain is enough to sabotage self-esteem, and it’s also enough to end a career.

That’s a movie right there. A restrained but interesting story to tell about how a gentle softening of your chiseled edges can ruin your name in Hollywood.

However, Aronofsky is not known for cinematic restraint. Of course he was more drawn to a story that involved a quarter ton of fat caused by binge eating. And that’s another problem. Binge eating is far from the only cause of obesity, but of course it is the most cinematic. It ties in well with a general perception of fat people as moribund monsters, their stomachs distended by joyless stuffing.

Getting personal.

I take this way too personally. I have never been a binge eater—I don’t see the allure—and resent this being assumed as a “why” for my weight. Will people see this movie and think I sit at home with the often cited “whole pizzas and gallons of ice cream”? Because I don’t. I haven’t. I physically couldn’t.

I also worried The Whale would kick off a wave of “fat people suffering” cinema. Would these movies resemble the “Black people suffering” movies made by White people for other White people? Well-meaning White people who always identify with the one decent White character, so they can walk out of the theater feeling reassured that they are not the problem? Would there be movies about thin saviors? Magical fatties who have no lives of their own but just exist to solve thin people problems?

How far would this thing go? Would there be marches and demonstrations? Would there be obesity reparations? Could I punch anyone who offered them to me?

As I have said before, this new appreciation for the fact that fat people are human beings is annoying to me. I don’t want a bunch of thin people offering me their heartfelt sympathy for how terrible my life has been. I will punch anyone who tells me I’m brave for lumbering along under the crushing weight of my despair (and my fat). Jesus Christ, it’s not ideal to be fat but I’ve certainly managed to have a decent life.

But now there’s a cure…

I shouldn’t have worried, because since that movie came out, Ozempic and Wegovy and all the other injectable semaglutides hit the public consciousness. These new drugs will apparently cure fat forever. Whew! No need for a wave of Fat Cinema.

I had kind of a moment about Wegovy with an online book group. No one else in the group is fat, I am the only fatty there. And someone started tsking and tutting about how famous people are all taking these injections to get thin, so vain, so shallow.


I pointed out that we live in a culture that turns a microscope on famous people and penalizes them for every physical flaw, every line, every pound. And we also denounce them for anything they do to remedy those physical flaws. We can’t have it both ways, can we? We can’t condemn them for being human and then condemn them for trying not to be.

Then I spoke up about my own experience; how years ago I had talked with my gastroenterologist about what to do about my weight, how calorie cutting doesn’t work for me because I don’t eat all that much so I have to eat under a thousand calories to budge the scale and I can’t sustain that. I have a messed-up heart for which I take a possibly lethal prescription drug twice a day, so heavy exercise is not an option. My older brother died from complications from weight-loss surgery, his organs failing one by one, so I have zero interest in that.

I asked my doctor, what should I do?

And he said, “Karen, don’t worry about it. There’s something coming, a shot or a pill, and it’s going to change everything about weight loss.” He told me to wait for it. He retired before it hit the market, but once it did, I went right to my PCP and requested a prescription. She wrote one, but insurance wouldn’t cover it and that stuff was wildly expensive, so I didn’t pick it up.

Well, now these drugs have been approved for weight loss, so insurance will cover them. Did you all know that Weight Watchers immediately bought a medical company that can prescribe these drugs? They are changing their model from portion and calorie control to injectables. WEIGHT WATCHERS. But of course, the drugs carry side effects for some people, mostly nausea. And now I’m reading that these drugs can paralyze your stomach. So you’re nauseous all the time, and then you can’t actually digest food anymore, so I suppose you get really thin.


On second thought, I probably shouldn’t watch The Whale.

Halloween Postcards: Amorous Pumpkins!

Kiss a Squash Day

I’ve enjoyed finding Creepy Valentines and sharing them with you, because who doesn’t want a murderous or suicidal Valentine greeting, am I right? So recently, I came across a feature on antique Halloween postcards from the “Golden Age of Postcards.” I think this is the same era as the Christmas cards that feature dead bugs and homely suffragettes. Anyway, among the witches, I was surprised to see so many postcards featuring amorous pumpkins. I guess even way back when in the days of yore (just like now), nothing says loving like a squash (though wasn’t an eggplant in the olden days). So, here we go. Also, all these cards are in the public domain, so right click to your heart’s content.

Hairy Pumpkins

Vintage Halloween postcard of kissing pumpkins

Please note the handwritten note: “I send you a kiss-” And what a kiss it is. Two hirsute and swarthy orange globes, all puckered up. I can’t tell if this is a gendered osculation, but one squash has some mighty impressive sideburns. I mean, how romantic! Wouldn’t you be all a-flutter if you received this postcard? Romance galore! However, the cat doesn’t seem to agree. The cat actually looks a little freaked out. Shouldn’t we all be a little freaked out?

Jane Austen Pumpkins

Vintage Halloween postcard of kissing pumpkins

A more genteel take on the kissing pumpkins. Here, the pumpkins are a bit less androgynous, what with the breeches and skirts and whatnot. And look, he presented her with a posy of carrots, so that’s romantic, yes? I mean, a little on the phallic side, but at least they’re not eggplants. Also, the apparently male pumpkin is green, which is a nice variation. I like how their little stems perch on their heads like tiny hats. But again, the cat is really freaked out. Perhaps the black cats are a kind of Greek chorus, providing the audience reaction when seeing pumpkins kiss?

Yee Haw Pumpkins

Vintage Halloween postcard of embracing pumpkins

Okay, I’m a little more comfortable here because despite the clothes, these are actual Jack-o-Lanterns. I have to say, I like the carved pumpkins better than the smooching anthropomorphized pumpkins. These country pumpkins have a down home lovin’ kind of air about them, like scarecrows come to life. Even though the kiss isn’t shown, Jackie is pointing to the place where she wants Jack to plant a big ol’ pumpkin smackeroo. The cat appears a little wistful, instead of aghast. And it seems the moon approves…

Foot Fetish Pumpkins

Vintage Halloween pumpkin postcard

Okay, now, hold up. What in the Sam Hain is going on here? There’s a pretty girl sitting on a huge Moon squash, and a serpentine parade of pumpkin creatures with zucchini limbs and vacant eyes coming to…do what exactly? Take turns looking at her foot? Or are they going to bow? Pay Halloween homage of some sort? Or is it something more interesting than that? What are the pumpkin zombies up to? “Strange things will happen” for sure! If only there were a black cat to provide reaction and commentary on the action.

When Pumpkin Love Gets Weird

Vintage Halloween postcard with pumpkin man, goddess, and goblins

Okay, speaking of strange things…

“On Halloween your slightest wish

is likely to come true,

so be careful, or the gobelins

will spoil your wish for you.”

I’d like to know who is wishing for what, here. It seems like the pumpkin person is the most likely to be making the wish, what with the googly eyes and goofy smile. But there’s a chance it’s this Diana Moon Goddess person whose wish is the subject. Is she supposed to be a witch? She has moons on her shoes. Perhaps she’s hoping to animate the pumpkin man (though he looks quite animated to me) (all he needs is an eggplant at this point). The “Gobelins” give me no clue. I would hope they’d interrupt this pairing, but they look delighted by the budding romance between Moon Goddess and Squash Man. The little weirdos. What’s going on? Again, without a black cat to react, I am lost.

And…A Cute One

Vintage Halloween postcard of a witch kissing a jack o'lantern

Okay, even though this witch is making advances on a member of the vegetable kingdom, this still strikes me as relatively tame compared to the other cards. This Jack O’Lantern isn’t aggressively amorous. It’s just a nice Jack O’Lantern that seems completely amenable to being kissed. It probably helps that this pumpkin doesn’t have a body. Or sideburns. And the witch is pretty. There’s nothing overtly aggressive about her little closed-mouth peck, which almost seems innocent. Overall, there’s no foot worship, no weird leering going on. And we don’t have a black cat, but we do have an intense little bat speeding over like a traffic cop to break this up. Come on, little bat. This looks harmless.

Happy Halloween, and may all your pumpkins be normal.