Columns
Jim Atwell: Monsters I’ve known or been
On Halloween I turned
into a ghoul, or maybe revealed
my Inner Monster.
Who knows or cares? It was
great fun.
Halloween was also the
date for Fly Creek’s Sauerkraut-
Making Fest. Each
year a dozen local sauerkraut
lovers gather at Scottie
Baker’s home and spend
hours singing along raucously
with country songs
on the radio, shredding
mounds of green cabbage
and packing them into big
crocks. Awful jokes are told,
and loud laughter follows
each one. An anthropologist
really ought to observe.
The crocks are ceremonially
transported to Anne’s
and my house, where they
perfume our back room for
six weeks.
Then the fermented
kraut is bagged and parceled
out to the fest’s participators.
Last year, as I
remember, each got about a
gallon to freeze and then
serve across the long winter.
This year, they’ll get
more.
More, because Anne and
I made a pilgrimage up
north of Little Falls to the
farm of Amos Lapp, the sober-
looking Amish man you
may know from the Cooperstown
Farmer’s Market.
(That visit’s worth another
column.) We came home
with 15 heads of beautiful
green cabbage, each of them
10 pounds. Yep, 150 pounds
of cabbage; it occasioned a
lot of shredding and pounding.
Since I’m not good at
shredding or pounding
these days, my contribution
came later, after a delicious
pot-luck beside Scottie’s
cozy woodstove. As eaves
dripped rain down windowpanes,
Scottie dimmed the
lights, and a daunting presence
stepped into the
group’s midst. It was (surprise!)
a monk.
Earlier in the day I’d
taken my black academic
gown (not much in use lately)
and fitted over it a wide
scapular that hung to my
knees, front and back. It
was made of burlap and
belted at the waist with
brown rope. Then I added a
hood made from a pair of
black pants artfully safety pinned
into a hood, with
long panels (the legs), to
drape over my shoulders.
The finished product, as I
modeled it in a full-length
mirror, looked monkish,
but ghoulish, too.
When I stepped into the
party’s dimness, I spoke as
Brother Requiem, last
member of a 14th-century
religious order. It is called
the Little Brothers of a
Happy Death, or more commonly,
the Brothers of
Death. Their holy founder,
Blessed Moribundus,
formed the order for special
service at executions.
(I should say that, as
Brother Requiem explained
his order’s history, his delivery
was, for some sauerkrauters,
a bit startling. He
had a variety of disturbing
facial tics, kept twisting to
look sharply to left and
right, and interrupted himself
with short barks of
laughter at odd, inapt
times. But, to return to his
account:)
The service at executions,
explained Brother
Requiem, followed on a cultural
shift in the 14th century:
a move from public
burnings to public hangings.
This followed on reluctance
of village and hamlet
dwellers to use winter fuel
for burning criminals or
heretics, especially because
such events happened almost
weekly; there was little
other entertainment out
in the countryside. Requiem
followed that with a
chilling bark that made one
listener sputter in his coffee.
Country folk were also
loath to use wood for a scaffold,
and so they simply
dangled the condemned
from a tree branch. That
provided them with at least
fifteen to twenty minutes of
diversion, as the victim
twisted and jerked while
the noose slowly tightened.
``And how the little children
loved it!’’ added Brother Requiem,
softening his voice
and bark. ``Their homes
were so poor, there could be
no puppets or dollies to play
with.’’ (At that, one sauerkrauter
pushed away her
dessert plate. But what
could I do? I was just a
channeler . . .)
Requiem continued in
his normal voice, such as it
was. ``And what service was
offered by the Little Brothers
of a Happy Death? Well,
led by the Blessed Moribundus,
a small group
would chant its way through
the crowd, singing `In paradisum
deducant te angeli’
(May angels lead you to
paradise), or, if it seemed
more apt, `Dies irae, dies
illa!’’ (Day of wrath, that
dreadful day!’)
Moribundus would step
forward and embrace the
knees of the dangling man.
He would pull down, slowly
and carefully, so as not to
cause an unfortunate
(Bark!) disjuncture of head
and neck. ``This would
tighten the noose,’’ said Requiem,
spreading his hands
and leaning back in his
chair, ``and thus shorten
suffering.’’ The monk snorted.
``The crowd was a little
disappointed — but they
did enjoy the monks’ chanting
and the solemn dance
they did, each holding his
arms as if he embraced a
set of knees.’’
Brother Requiem sighed.
``Those were simpler, happier
times,’’ he said, and
then spoke grimly. ``But
then came technology, destroying,
as it so often does,
innocent human joys. The
guillotine made its appearance,
and suddenly country
hangings were obsolete.
Folk rushed to the cities for
the bigger spectacles — the
prisoner delivered in a cart
(providing a chance to hurl
insults and rotten fruit),
the climb to the scaffold,
the flash of sunlight on the
falling blade. What chance
did country ritual, including
our monks,’ have
against that?
``But Saint Moribundus
was again inspired. He assigned
gifted monks to
squat by the guillotine head
basket, looking up at the
unfortunate. They would
grimace, cross their eyes,
waggle their tongues, tell
awful jokes. And just when
the condemned looked distracted
by the fun, they’d
signal the executioner, and
another somewhat happier
death was done.
``One monk,’’ said Requiem
``was a great weeper
and could soak the front of
his scapular in seconds.
While the crowd jeered and
taunted the condemned,
he’d squat by the basket,
sob, moan, gasp, wring his
hands. He’d signal the executioner
just when he
sensed the condemned was
starting to think, `Well, at
least somebody ca-’’’
Requiem patted his
knees. ``Another happy
death!’’ he chortled, then
twitched violently. ``But
now executions are governmental,
private, and I’m
the very last Little Brother
of Death. But there’s hopeful
rumor of another movement
under way.’’ He
leaned forward. ``Have you
heard of Blessed Kevorkian?’’
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
- Columns
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
(I owe the first part of this column to an informal writers’ workshop sponsored by the Smithy Pioneer Gallery. The small group, led by Gallery Director Danielle Newell, meets Sunday afternoons and is open to anyone interested in the writing craft. As a warmup exercise on that very rainy afternoon, we each wrote a few paragraphs on the weather and emotions. Here’s what that keen group prompted me to scribble down) The dour old Scotsman, the one featured in jokes without number about buying lottery tickets, pinching pennies, scorning worldly ways, etc., once silenced a friend who was praising the beautiful weather.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: We're back from Michigan ...
Unfortunately, we once again find ourselves stuck in a time warp. When we look at the calendar, we realize that Labor Day is fast approaching. Yet, we seem to be operating under the misconception that it is still early July due in large part to the fact that we spent the almost five weeks from July 15 to August 17 in Grand Rapids, Michigan. We feel the summer has sailed by and we, unfortunately, have not kept pace.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Censorship?
All those indebted to John Lawrence, Post-rider, and do not settle the same IMMEDIATELY may rely upon having to pay cost!! Otego, Aug. 24.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1984 comes to a close ... finally
As we continue traipsing through 1984, we realize that even though we were supposed to be covering the comings and goings of Cooperstown, we actually were able, even then, to touch on a number of pressing community, as well as personal, issues. Of course, much to the relief of the powers that were at CCS, the school was not among them. The he-we ran for the school board in 1984 and was elected. Thus the school was deemed off limits by the powers that were at the paper. But we discovered there was still a wide range of issues upon which we could write.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: New school book
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, Aug. 18, 1810
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Books offer tennis insights
Professional tennis sometimes seems to be the ultimate life. Where else could you travel the world, earn gobs of money, get in great shape, and have groupies from the opposite sex chasing you all the time? And you get all your equipment free to boot (which may explain why players smash racquets without remorse). Quite a glamorous life, isn’t it?
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Continuing our 1984 musings
Now that we have undertaken the beginnings of this column, we fear we find ourselves unable to stop our review of the early writings. In fact, we seem to be completely addicted to the project. And thus, we will continue to explore the very foundations on which this column has been built.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Burnett's book recalls 'Golden Age'
It’s a shame that today’s young generation missed the golden age of television from the 1960s and 70s. The fact that Hollywood studios with their ``original’’ ideas of constantly remaking hit TV shows from that era into new movies and reunion specials is quite telling. Even Fox with its ``That 70’s Show’’ is a reminder of that whimsical time.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: A place to cherish
As we enter into the middle of summer, let us pause and relish in the fact that we have been blessed with such lovely weather.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Hurray for Mother Bassett!
Just back from my annual week at Lake George’s Silver Bay, in company with about 600 other Quakers. As always, it was a great time: Friends shared silence in the early morning by the lake and during the day in the big brown-shingled tabernacle. (Silver Bay is an old YMCA camp.)
Continued ...
Plenty of fine stringed music and singing in the evenings; lots of daytime rocking-chair stints on the deep veranda, facing across rolling lawns and lake to green mountains and skies of startling blue. -
In These Otsego Hills: In the beginning
Our remembering Jerry in last week’s column has now lead us to muse about our early days of writing a weekly newspaper column.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Prohibition should not be ignored
I was an American history major in college and one topic that my professors never discussed was prohibition.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Elopement
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 21, 1810 Compiled, with comments BY HUGH C. MACDOUGALL
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Personal Care is a rewarding occupation
When I was a young girl in the early 50’s my family would often take rides through Cooperstown and the Cherry Valley area.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Remembering Jerry ...
Difficult as it is to believe, we have been a widow for eleven years this week. And yet it seems as if our late husband Jerry just died yesterday. The memory of it remains most vivid in our mind. We suppose there is much that we don’t remember about July 20, 1999. But we do remember just how much that day changed our life forever. We lost not only our spouse of 28 years, but also our best friend.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Celebrating the 4th
From the Otsego Herald for Saturday, July 14, 1810 Compiled, with comments by
Continued ... -
Our Opinion: What’s good for the goose...
The board of trustees has decided to hire an engineer to review the work of CLA Site, the firm hired to do the site assessment and design work for the Village Gateway Project _ now known as the Cooperstown Intermodal Transit Project. That review will cost up to $12,000.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: ‘Thump-thump, dum-lum’
Since I last wrote to you I’ve been several times embraced to Mother Bassett’s bosom.
Continued ...
(Oh dear, I hope that’s not a disrespectful metaphor. But if you’ve seen photos, you know she was a handsome, dignified woman with an ample superstructure.) This time, for variety, the hospital visits at first seemed to have little to do with Parkinsonism. But a new problem had turned up that had me tested in every part of the hospital except obstetrics. -
In These Otsego Hills: Travels with The Widge...
We have decided that the role of grandmother is quite to our liking. As we have been told any number of times, as a grandparent it is perfectly acceptable to hold, play with and fawn over the grandchild until such time as said grandchild becomes fussy. And then, and this is the best part, it is completely within the purview of the grandparent to return the fussy grandchild to the parents. We love it.
Continued ... -
Otsego Herald: Shocking accident, American arrested
On Wednesday last, as Joseph Faulkner, esq. of Middlefield, was returning home from Cherry-Valley, a gust of wind arose up suddenly, a large Elm was blown across the road, directly on Mr. Faulkner, who, together with his horse was instantly killed.
Continued ...
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From Fly Creek: Passing fronts and settled weather
