Mostly Molly Ghosty ... and the Neighborly Witch

Mostly Molly Ghosty ... and the Neighborly Witch

Mother was won't to say, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." Easy for her to say. Right? She didn't have to face all those snot nose kids in class who would make fun at the slightest eency weency persnickety particular peculiar particle of ... whatever it was. 

I once was teased mercilessly for forgetting to rub the phony mustache I drew on my lip, and went to school the next day sporting said panache. BTW, now I have grown an actual mustache, so now those kids can, as we once used to say, go blow. And, let's not go over the permutations on Wronski that were laid at my feet. Wrongski. Wrightski. Wrong way Wronski. That Pollack. The last one was not just one tailored just for yours truly. But, the others. For sure. Geez! Adding ... as you can probably deduce from my writing style, I recall more than a few "Weisenheimer's" along the way as well. My boss at my part time job during my high school days always said, "The world hates a wise ass, especially if he doesn't have any money". True. That. [I'm living testament.]

But enough about me. [What do you think about me?] 

On with the tale. It's a tale because I'm not sayin' it's made up stuff, and I'm not sayin' it's not. Just sayin'.

She's Molly Ghosty. So, you wonder ... is she a ghost? No, silly! Really. That's her name. Molly. Oh, you say. What about the other part. The "Ghosty" part. That too. Her name. Her surname to be precise. Fred and Ethel Ghosty are her parents. From a long line of Ghosty's I might add.

So, as was hinted at from the beginning, little Molly came in for some serious ribbing. Not the least which would reliably and without fail occur at the time of the festival of spookenalia fantasticoni spectaculara. Halloween, if you haven't figured that out for yourself.

Kids! In the hall at school it was all Boo's and Eek's from all the other kids for little Molly. You know, making out like she was a real ghost. Like it never would end. Until it did. Here's the skinny.

One day, Molly decided. Enough! She hatched a plot. "They want to get all up in my face like they're ascared and all. Well, let's give 'em what they're looking for."

Now, little Molly was a smart cookie. No not a real cookie, silly. Just like she's not a real ghost. [Oh, yeah. Ghosts are real. You can be sure.] Smart cookie. It's an expression. [Look it up.] 

Here's what she cooked up. Or, baked, if you will; since we're talking about cookies.

Turns out that right next door to young Molly lived a witch. Which, if you think about it, is quite the coincidence. No? And, for some reason — maybe because that witch was sympathetic to the tough time our little girl was having on account of her name — they were friends. And, as anyone can tell you who lives next door to a witch, it's best to be on good terms. At least. But she and Molly were fast friends.

And, as anyone who lives next to a witch can also tell you, being friendly with her ilk has its advantages. Especially if you want to settle a score with someone who's been bugging the crap out of you. And, in Molly's case, that was just about everyone in her school. 

At this juncture you should understand that being friends with a witch also has its downside. Her ways sort of rub off on you. 

Like, toads. Molly had a pet toad. Her parents had no clue where she came into possession of such a slimy critter. But, we know, don't we.  Next door. That witch. It was given in a gesture of friendship, but you know about witch's toads. They carry spells. Not like it'll help you in a Spelling Bee, silly. Spells: as in incantations and mischief, and all sorts of sundry such commotions. Perfect! Molly thought. 

A most troublesome such connivance with a witchy such toad is to use it to turn some other(s) themselves into toads. No joke! Yikes! You betcha. And that is exactly what little sweet Molly had up her sleeve. Not the toad, silly. The idea for using said toad in such a stupifyin' fashion. Clearly the young lady had had enough. Next level stuff, we're talking here. Turn all those little pesky SOB's into toads. Let's see how they like the world looking through the slimy eyes of a toad!

But sometimes the way things turn out isn't quite what one would have in mind. Molly was fine with turning all her schoolmates into toads. Little did she know, however, that the spell only worked one way. As they say in my ancestral country of Poland, "Once a toad, always a toad". Fortunately for Molly, not to mention also for all those little proto-toadlets at school, she became apprised of the one way street nature of the curse and dropped the idea forthwith and completely on account of she wasn't such a bad little girl. And that would be bad. BAD.  Actually, even faster than that she changed her tune, toad-wise, that is. She wanted them to get their comeuppance you betcha, but not at such a high price. Gurl did have some scruples, don't you know.

So she consulted the friendly neighborly witch next door and asked for an alternative solution. Nothing so drastic or permanent. Just enough to teach them all a lesson and maybe even scare the hell out of them, to boot.

After spending a seemingly interminable length of time in her dusty old library the witch came back with a snapping good alternative plan. So good, in fact, that she giggled and kackled her witchy giggle and kackle to the unmistaken notice of little Molly girl. Well, witches do as witches be, as the saying goes.

Now, what is Molly's next gambit? A party. Everyone's invited. Where? Next door, silly. [The witch's house.] Now if a witch isn't scary enough, her house takes the cake. No cake at this party however. In case you were wondering. Maybe, though, a few errant wisecracker little SOBs baked into a cake. C'mon, Man! That's too, too. For Molly anyway. But, you better believe, that witch would be all over such and so to doings. Given half the chance.

You may be wondering if the Witch has a name. Well, yeah! Constance, Unsworth, Throckmorton, Eunicianonsa, Beningsly, Dunwoody, Zorgo, Dandelion, Sibelius, Izzachevich, Jones. Just call her CUTEBDZDSIJ. Pronounced: Cutie-Bids-Gedge. Don't complain. If you can learn to pronounce  Pete Buttigieg , you can pronounce CUTEBDZDSIJ [say it! ... "Cutie-Bids-Gedge"]. We could get all up into how that name came to be. Quite the family history. Just let's say the family had moved around a bit. Just about all points on the globe. Folks generally aren't that hospitable to witches, if you didn't know. 

Can we move on now, huh?

That witch's house. You could tell it was such and so from the elaborate hand tied catcher fence surrounding it. What's a catcher fence? It catches stuff, silly. Here, take a look.

No one knows for sure what that effinthing is for. So let's let sleeping toads lie. [That's a clue.] Yet, you neve know when it comes to witches. That fence could be for as much keeping bad things in as for keeping them out. 

The house was all decorated for the annual Halloween festivities anyway, so Molly had this bright idea to have the neighborly witch host a party and invite her classmates for a shock or three. Yes, three. Three's a charm. Well, maybe not if you're a smoker and you're third. [Look it up. It's a thing. Hint: Crimean War, and others.]

That night came and more than a whole bunch of the kids from school showed up. Sure, it was supposed to be a "scary" todo, but make believe. Like the costumes themselves. Just pretend. Right?

Wrong! 

Things were going swimmingly. Not that they were swimming, silly. It's an expression. [Look it up.] There was recorded music. The "Monster Mash" sung by what you would swear was that creepy Boris Karloff himself. "Thriller." "Highway to Hell." "Ghostbusters." "(Don't Fear) The Reaper." "Splish Splash." Werewolves of London." "Love Potion Number 9." Like that. And, for some inexplicable reason [in fact, it was just on account of that the witch liked that tune — it has personal significance] "Bad Romance." And, an occasional turn on the loop of "If I Could Turn Back Time". The latter which would prove apropos in light of the way those little miscreants had treated dear little Molly, owing to that only for the fact that her surname was "Ghosty". In the thick of it, they all wished for another time. Earlier, you betcha.

 

Read on.

So it went. The music. The witch — she answers to the name Shirley, Shirley Witch [sometimes, surly] — ladelling seemingly un-mickey'd [hopefully] punch from a fun witch's cauldron, Molly going around the place with a sheet over her head saying "Boo" to everyone's surprise and delight. A gay old time. [Not that there's anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends are.]

Then ...

The music stopped. The lights went out. Pitch black. Not a sound. In other words, silence. If anyone dropped a pin, you for sure would hear it. Like that. Everyone stopped short. Ascared. You betcha. Heart pounding, made quite the noise with there being so many doing that, and all.

From outside the room loud witchy kacklings and sputterings. In the room, little Molly reassuring the gathered assemblage that everything was fine. Just go to the a door and ... GET OUT! After much scrambling and groping for a door and whatnot when you opened a door there would be a ghostly apparition of Molly herself all scary and ghostly. Get it? Ghosty/Ghostly. To make it all just that much more stupifyin' this is the kind of trick she managed to pull off: 

This went on for what to the ascared assemblage seemed like an eternity. In hell, for sure. The witch Shirley making a few appearances herself, which without any tricks was scary enough. After that eternity and everyone fell silent frozen in abject fear and trepidation, the lights went on and there was our Molly dressed up all in a beautiful party dress and handing out little jack-o'-lantern baskets filled with a whole bunch of candies. Kiss-kiss, good night. Sleep tight. Yeah. Right.

That was pretty much it. Postscript on the whole shebang though, after that fateful night and that party to end all parties — and seemed likely to end all partygoers — Molly's status in school saw a dramatic shift. Her trend was upward. Now, instead of making parting the way for her with all jeerings and jokings on her Ghosty name, the seas parted in the halls in deference and respect for our once beleaguered girl. 

A lot of kids in such a similar situation would let it go to their head. When you have hand, it is said, that's when your true character shows. And, Molly, she had character. Not that she was a character, silly. Well, she could be a character. But, not that kind, all the time. Real character. Good. To the bone good. Do the right thing kind of character. Golden Rule. Do as you would want done.

Instead of letting it go to her head and strolling around the hall with her nose all up in the air, Molly was kind and friendly, with all and everyone too. She is as such are called, a mensch. Her schoolmates eventually simmered down and pretty soon is was just a regular situation for Molly at her school. 

Except for one teensy weensy little loose end. Little Tommy Todaski. No one has seen him since the night of the party. There are rumors. The witch ... "Beats me!" He was, to be honest, a little creep. Up to no good all the time. Not missed, except that nagging business of not knowing where he went to. There have been stories circulating that a toad frog is seen occasionally in the halls at school. Could it be? We don't know. This is a tale, after all. How tall, you be the judge. [It's an expression; look it up.] But, if he did get turned into a toad it's probably for the best since he was, well, bad to the bone.

So, kids. Be good. Be very good to any witch who may live in the neighborhood. And, if you see a toad in school, say a prayer for Tommy Todaski. [Toad/Todaski ... ironic, no?]

Now, just for fun. Scary fun. Check it out ...

Just for historical purposes on Karloff and Legosi ...

Indigenous Peoples Day

 It's Indigenous Peoples Day 

October 12, 2020

That's Dancing

On Chairs

I like chairs. I do have my taste in styles. And, even more so, in design. 

The first few images immediately below are examples of Early American which I have owned. 

That's not the end of it. Modern too. The Marcel Breuer Chesca Arm Chair is a classic great.

Currently, I'm enjoying sitting on a rock solid bank/legal office/jury arm chair.

Oldie, but a goodie ...

Design-wise, I prefer chairs you sit on; rather than one's you sit in. And, something that supports your back in a more or less upright posture.

There are other chairs which I would gladly own. Alas, most tend to demand a certain amount of surrender. Thrusting you backward. It may seem relaxed, but over a longer period of time that ergonomic design is tiring.

Oh, to own an original. But, not to sit in. Obviously. Just to look at.

For a good snooze ...

Class all the way ...

I'm including my Mother's rocking chair. Her own needlepoint covering.

And, a story ...

The Blue Chair

He lived alone for years after his dearest darling wife had passed away. Then one day, he went too, just short of 100 years.

Everything was sold away. Except for an old blue chair.

The chair was there when a young man brought his new bride home. A wedding gift, made for them by his father.

Often in their early days it was their love nest, and he would hug and kiss her while she nestled softly in his arms. It supported him as he waited eager and nervous for the news of the birth of his son; and, then again, his baby girl. So many times he would sit there helping to prepare the dinner vegetables. His specialty was string beans; laying a sheet or two of an old newspaper on the table to catch the trimmings.

It gave a trusty lift for reaching burned out light bulbs. He told stories there with the grand children sitting at his feet. He even stood on it once and conducted an orchestra as a concert blared on the radio. It served for a fair share of spankings to naughty children. So many times he sat there at the kitchen table mourning the loss of his dear bride.

The blue chair was there for it all, a witness to a rich life of times and people. Now, after all that, it was standing abandoned at the curb waiting for the trash pick-up.

One morning as I walked by, it spoke to me. It promised a wonderful story of times and people.

The chair had lost none of its gracefulness, even for the chips and the worn paint. The color too, had lost none of its beauty. I took it home. It’s an old chair and fragile, so I sit on it reverently.

It was true to its promise. As I sit there a story is unfolding. Not of detail and color and shape, from other times and people. But my own life. Sitting there, simply present with me, silent support as my own memories loose their fascination and concern.

Always in its long life a friend, and now to me.

 Made in the U.S.A.

Made in the USA ...

That's a real thing, you know. Not just some patriotic sentiment. 

Those tools have been in my kit for a long time. Will last even longer. Sturdy. Reliable. Bulletproof. Well designed. Get the job done. Functional. Practical. 

I lament the newer generations will not even know there's such a thing. Weaned on Made in China, as they are today. And, by Made in China I'm referring to cheap and flimsy. 

I recently purchased a few things which were in earlier times classic Made in America. The one's I got were from China and broke easily and were shoddy. I contacted the US customer service at those companies and they seemed to be clueless about my issue. Sent me replacements a few times on one item; which broke right away. 

Not sure whether the folks in customer service knew the difference, didn't care, or simply ignored the issue. And, they were from the US.