Trihuger's Treats: Chapter Three

(Chapter Two)

With the children following at a safe distance, Suzie’s father turned right onto the path that circled the island and headed toward Mrs. Langley’s house. But before he reached it, he turned left and headed down a path that Suzie was never allowed to walk on. Her father said it was off-limits because it only led to a large grove of trees that was full of ticks.

“Uh, oh. Aren’t we going toward the tick trees?” Oliver said. “I’m not supposed to go near them.” 

“Me either, dummy,” Suzie said. "And we’re not supposed to be following my dad no matter where he goes, so hush! I’m sure he’s not going in there. He doesn’t want to get ticks, either.”

Sure enough, just before the trees, her father turned right and began heading up a small hill.  

“Wait, stop,” Suzie said, reaching out her arm to block Oliver though he had already stopped dead still. “There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s stay here.”

          

The children waited, holding their breath, until her father disappeared from view. Then they scrambled up the hill as quickly and quietly as they could, crawling like lizards up the side and reaching the top just in time to see a door closing and lying flat again. 

         

Suzie ran to the spot, but when she got there she could see nothing but ground. 

         

“Now what?” Oliver whispered as Suzie knelt down, feeling along the ground for the door.

        

“Help me find it,” Suzie snapped. “It’s got to be here somewhere.” Then just as she moved left, the door flopped open. Oliver squealed and jumped back while Suzie froze, waiting.     

     

“H-how did you do that?” Oliver said.

     

“I don’t know,” she whispered, crawling over and slowly peeking her head over the hole. Oliver hissed in protest and tried to pull her back, but she ignored him and peered inside.

“C’mon, there’s stairs!” she said, swinging her legs over and heading down.

      

It was cold and very dark along the stairs, so Oliver kept one hand on the wall to feel his way down, not sure how far Suzie was ahead of him. “Suzie, wait! Where are you?”

          

“Hush! I’m right here, dummy,” she said, reaching the end of the stairs and the beginning of a long hallway. “There’s light coming from somewhere down there. Let’s go see.”

           

They walked as quietly as they could toward the light, but stopped as soon as they heard voices.

            

“Yes, but won’t we need more zuckers?” Suzie’s father was saying.

            

“Of course. But first, I will need you to get me his urine,” said a strange voice, which sounded much older than her father’s. 

“You’re in? What’s he mean?” Oliver whispered, peeking over Suzie’s shoulder. “Can – ow!” he stopped, feeling Suzie’s elbow in his ribs as she ordered him once again to be quiet.

            

“As soon as possible and as fresh as possible,” the older man was saying, and soon the children heard someone heading down the hall toward them.

“He’s coming – hide!” Suzie hissed, pulling Oliver backward down the hall. “Here, in here,” she said, crawling through a doorway.

          

They made it inside just in time, for suddenly the hall was bathed in soft light and seconds later they saw her father’s legs go striding by. They waited, but the other man did not follow, and soon the hall was quiet again. They waited for the light to go out again, but it didn’t. Finally sure the other man wasn’t coming down the hall, they began to glance around the room, which was now dimly lit from the hallway.

          

“Are these all books?” Suzie said, seeing that they were crouched in front of shelves and shelves of them. She stood up, walking closer to the books. The shelves covered the walls from floor to ceiling with only small spaces in the corners.  “This is like ten times as many books as my dad has. How could you ever read all these? What are they for?”

       

As she got closer, Suzie was disappointed to see they all looked like the thick books her father kept that were full of boring facts and no pictures, like encyclopedias and dictionaries. But then at the end of the shelf just above her head, one caught her eye. Much shorter than the others, it also looked exactly like the diaries her father kept on a special shelf. 

“Oliver, look,” she said. “Can you reach that red book there?”

           

Sure enough, when Oliver pulled it down and gave it to her, the handwriting on front looked very familiar.

         

“What’s it say?” Oliver said.

         

“Abigail’s log,” Suzie answered, her voice strangely soft.

         

“Who’s Abigail?”

         

Suzie traced her fingers over the letters several times until she finally answered. “My mother.”

        

“Wow,” Oliver said, as Suzie sat down in front of the bookshelf. Suzie never talked about her mother. All Oliver knew was that she died soon after Suzie was born. 

          

Suzie opened the book, and Oliver sat down next to her, asking, “What’s a log?”

         

“I don’t know,” she said, turning the pages and struggling to read in the low light. “It looks like a diary. Listen to this: ‘Day one. As soon as I got near the island I could smell it. It is horrid.”

          

“What’s horrid mean?” Oliver whispered.

          

“I don’t know,” Suzie said, annoyed again. “It probably means extra gross, your favorite word. Shush!”

 She continued reading: “At first I could not tell what the smell was coming from, because when I approached I could see nothing but dust — no trees, no buildings, no plants or animals or even people. Just dust.”

           

"Hey, I think she’s talking about that other island!” Suzie said, excited. “If my father won’t tell me about it, at least I can read about it!”

            

“Then I noticed the seagulls, the only animals I ever saw near the place. They were off to the side in one big group, circling and calling and diving. My task was to keep an eye on the people, but I couldn’t help it. I paddled closer and saw they were diving into piles of garbage. Plastic, bottle, cans, boxes … there was so much garbage you couldn’t see the sand anymore. It was so awful, I started crying — I mean, over the smell, of course.

      “I think the people just drove to the edge of the cliffs and dumped their garbage over. The beach was ruined. It seemed like hours before I could paddle back. 

        

“What does ‘drove’ mean? And where did all that stuff come from? Why did they just throw it on the beach?” Oliver said, thinking of how he walked with his mother on the beach every morning. The only thing they ever found on the sand were shells, seaweed, and crabs. “My mother says we shouldn’t take or leave anything.”

Suzie skipped forward. “Here we go: ’Day Two: I forced myself to forget about the seagulls and concentrate on my mission. After much searching I found a place that was any way hidden and could allow me to tie up my boat, and luckily I brought a stake because there was nothing at all to use otherwise. I snuck onshore and learned that the rest of the island is in as bad a shape as the beaches, except it doesn’t really smell. It’s just loud, hot and dusty…’ 

       

“Mission? She was on a mission?” Suzie said, skipping ahead several pages. “Here — ‘Day Four: Mission accomplished — I found the cornfields. And they don’t look good. There are too many plants on too little land, and it looks as if the ears are picked as soon as they grow. I don’t think it will be very long at all until they need help.’

       

“You know what? I think my mom was a spy!” Suzie announced proudly, gripping the sides of the book as she looked up at Oliver, her eyes shining. “I think she was spying on the people on the other island.”

       

“She was indeed!” said the strange voice the children heard earlier, only this time it was much louder and coming from a tall man standing over them.

        

“Oh, no, run!” Oliver yelled, scrambling to his feet and streaking past the man’s legs. He had barely disappeared behind them when Suzie heard a loud bonk and a smack before the top of Oliver’s head appeared on the floor near the man’s legs. Instead of into the hall, Oliver had run straight into the opposite bookshelf.

        

“Ah, well, that’s no good,” said the man calmly, and as he turned to look down at the boy, Suzie began to crawl toward the door. “And that’s no good, either.” he said, grabbing her shirt and pulling her to her feet. “You’re staying right here.”

        

The man bent down slowly until his eyes met hers and she could see he had what looked like pieces of glass perched on his nose. She could feel the warmth from his breath when he said, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Suzanne. Were you really planning to leave your friend here to fend for himself?”

          

Suzie’s mouth dropped open. “H-how do you know my name? Wh-ho are you?”

“Your father didn’t tell you?” he said, releasing her shirt and turning to kneel next to Oliver, who was still out cold. “I am Frederick Trihuger, but you are to call me Mr. Trihuger. And I know you, and everyone else on this island, because it is mine.”

Chapter Four

Trihuger's Treats: Chapter Two

(Chapter One )

“No! What other island? Where is it? Why haven’t we gone there?” Suzie said rapid-fire, her hands on her hips.

“Well, if you sit and be quiet, I’ll tell you,” her father said firmly. Suzie plopped down on the couch immediately, crossing her arms. 

At least there was one person who could tell Suzie what to do, Oliver thought, impressed and jealous. He never had the nerve to try it, knowing at best she wouldn’t listen to him, at worst she’d hurt him. 

“So, there is another island a few miles away that used to be very much like ours. But,” her father paused, as if still deciding what to say. “But now it is ruined.”

       

“What do you mean? How do you ruin an island?” Suzie said, and her father was too lost in his own thoughts to chide her again. 

        

“Well, it does take a while. And all you need to know now is that the people on the other island destroyed theirs, and wanted to come over here next,” he said.

      

“That man was from the other island? How did he get here? Is that where they have zuckers?” said Suzie, seeming to sprout three more questions for every one her father answered. 

       

Oliver wished she would ask about breakfast instead, because they still hadn’t had any and he was getting very hungry. In fact, Suzie’s father had just started to speak again when a loud rumble erupted from Oliver’s stomach. 

     

“Right – breakfast,” Suzie’s father said, disappearing into the kitchen and returning a few seconds later with a plate of bread and cheese that he put on the coffee table. “This was just waiting for your berries. Which we’ll just have to do without, I guess, ” he said, nodding toward Suzie’s shirt as he headed back to the kitchen.

     

Oliver usually waited until Suzie took what she wanted, but she didn’t seem interested in the food, only in finding out more about the strange man and the other island. So he picked up two slices each of cheese and bread, shoving a third piece of bread in his mouth as he piled the rest into a sandwich. Realizing his bad manners, Oliver braced for Suzie’s elbow in his ribs — but it never came. She was watching the doorway to the kitchen. 

     

When her father returned, he put down a glass of water for each of them before sliding a chair over from the dining room to sit on, and Suzie leaned forward anxiously.  

       

“In fact,” her father continued as if he had never left, “I’m afraid we won’t have enough berries this week to trade for our bread from Mrs. Langley, or even to get a pie from Esmeralda.”

       

“Don’t you mean Crabelda?” said Oliver, crying out as Suzie stomped on his foot: “Oww! What? Isn’t that her name?”

        

“No, that’s not her name,” Suzie’s father answered before turning to Suzie. “I know you call her that, Suzie. So does she.” 

     

Suzie stopped glaring at Oliver and turned a shocked and guilty face back to her father. “What? How?” 

       

“You’re not exactly a soft talker, Suzie,” her father said, and Oliver bit into his sandwich to smother a giggle, not even daring to look up in case Suzie’s eyes were flashing on him again. 

      

“Yeah, well, I don’t know why we get her pies at all,” said Suzie, her guilt evaporating. “They’re awful!”

        

Her father responded sternly, his face hard. “That is not true, Suzie.”

        

“Yes, it is!” she cried. “You don’t even eat them. You just save them for Mr. Porter’s pigs.”

         

“I like them,” Oliver said, and Suzie turned to glare at him. “I mean, well … they’re not awful,” he said, taking another bite so he couldn’t say anything else. 

          

“Yes, thank you, Oliver,” Suzie’s father said. “Ezzie works very hard on her pies, and I know they’re not masterpieces, but I’d appreciate you not telling her how you feel about them,” he said, still looking sternly at Suzie. “And remember, you should call her Ms. Olsen.”

         

He stood up. “So, did you get enough to eat?”

         

Oliver nodded, his mouth full. Suzie shrugged. 

       

“Good, because I need to talk to Frederick as soon as possible,” Suzie’s father said, walking to the front door. 

       

“You’re leaving?!” Suzie cried as Oliver gulped down the food in his mouth. 

       

“But that man we saw at the berries is still out there! What if he followed us?” Oliver said as soon as he could talk, while Suzie asked, “Who’s Frederick? Is that the Berry Man?”

“Don’t worry Oliver. Your, ah, Berry Man won’t bother you. He wants zuckers, not you,” he said, walking to the front door and pulling his jacket off a hook behind it. “And no, Frederick is not the Berry Man, Suzie, but he is the only one who knows what to do.”

        
“Really?! Why? Who is he?” Suzie said, jumping up and running up to her father. “Can I go with you?”

         
“No,” her father said, with a hand on her shoulder. “I want you two to stay here until I get back.”

          
Oliver nodded. He didn’t plan to move from the couch, but Suzie grabbed for her father as he walked out the door. “Wait, you still haven’t told us what zuckers are! And who’s Frederick?” she cried, but her father continued outside and closed the door behind him.

      
“Wow,” said Oliver, still eating. “I didn’t know there was a man named Frederick who lived here. Who do you think he is? I wonder if my mom knows him.”

          
Suzie didn’t answer him, but pulled her coat off a lower hook on the door and ran to the window to watch her father walk away.  

          
“What are you doing? Why did you get your coat?” Oliver asked, worried that he already knew the answer.

         
“Shush.” Suzie said. “And put your coat on. When my father passes those trees, we’re following him.”

        
“What? No! He told us to stay inside! Th-that man is still out there!” he said, in a voice he wished didn’t come out so squeaky. 

        
“Well, I’m not staying here,” Suzie said, wiggling into her coat before picking up his. “I want to find out what’s going on. But if you don’t, you can stay here by yourself.”

Oliver gulped. They both knew that would never happen. He took his coat from Suzie and followed her outside.

(Chapter Three)

Please don't squeeze me. I only like hugging people I love.

I recently watched a movie called "Please Stand By" about a young autistic woman who doesn't like eye contact or hugs. And while her caretaker gently forces her to practice maintaining eye contact, she doesn't force hugs. Instead, the pair greet with an air hug, facing each other with their arms wrapped around an imaginary person as their fingers slightly touch.

That was cool.

I'm not sure where I am on the "autism spectrum," but I do know I don't like hugging most people. Only loved ones.
And while I don't want to start air hugging instead, I have tried to start a gentle fist bump for more casual interactions. Say, friends I see often and like very much, but don't want to hug every time I see them.
However, when my husband (only half-jokingly) asked if we could stopping hugging, I told him no, explaining with a modified quote from the movie Sweet Home Alabama, "I married you so I can hug you any time I want to."
For the rest of us, I propose we all greet one another how a teacher I saw in a video greets her kindergartners: as they walk in the door they each pick a hug, a high-five or a happy dance with no contact at all.
The code could be this: hold up one finger for a hug, two fingers for a high-five, and three fingers for a dance.
I'd always choose a dance, by the way. How could you not be smiling all day long if you greeted everyone with a happy dance?

Trihuger's Treats: Chapter One

Suzie was always telling Oliver what to do. So when he asked her how many berries they needed to pick and she didn’t answer him, he knew something was wrong.

“Um, Suzie? Did you hear me?” He peeked over the bushes in front of him, but she wasn’t there. So he headed back down the path along the blackberry bushes until he found her standing in front of one. “Suzie? How much does your dad wan—?”

        

He froze when the bush began shaking violently and out crawled a man. Or at least he hoped it was a man. He was covered in so many berry vines, leaves and smashed fruit he might have been part of the bushes – except he was talking. “Ooo uuu ath nny thuckers?” he said, berries tumbling out of his mouth and his entire face covered in deep red juice.

Neither kid moved nor made a sound. Suzie was too focused on trying to understand what the stranger was saying to do anything else. Oliver just wanted to keep her in front of him.

      

More agitated now, the man stepped forward and grabbed Suzie’s shoulders, his voice much louder and clearer since most of the berries had oozed down his face. “Do you have any zuckers!?”

     

“Any what?” Suzie said, still rooted to her spot even with the stranger’s hands squeezing her. If this was the last conversation she was going to have, she wanted to know what it had been about. 

      

Oliver inched closer to Suzie’s back, praying the man couldn’t see him moving.

     

“Zuckers! I need zuckers!” 

     

“What – what are zuckers?” Suzie said, feeling braver since she guessed if the man were going to hurt her, he would have already. 

     

The man let go of Suzie and sighed, wiping a hand across his face. Smelling the juice on his fingers, the man shoved them in his mouth greedily and took his eyes off Suzie. At that moment, she felt a tug on her shirt and her body moving back.

     

“Let’s go. Run!” said Oliver, taking off with her shirt clutched in his hand. As they dashed off, the man did not even look up from his fingers.

The children ran out of the bushes toward Suzie’s house as fast as they could, taking their shortcut through the strawberries that always made Suzie’s father mad. When they finally reached the house and burst inside, her father came out of the kitchen, seeing them doubled over and panting in the living room.

     

“What’s going on?” he said, holding a bowl he expected to fill with berries.

     

“A man attacked Suzie!” Oliver wheezed.

     

“What?!” Her father dropped the bowl on the dining room table as he hurried toward them, grabbing Suzie’s shoulders and lifting her upright. 

     

“What is that?!” he said, sounding almost as panicked as Oliver when he saw the red stains covering Suzie’s shirt.

     

“Oh – I’m fine. That’s just berries,” she said, wrapping her arms around her dad’s waist.

     

He patted her once, then pushed her backward. “What happened? Who was this man?”

     

Oliver sat down on the couch, lowering his head quickly toward his lap to make sure he hadn’t peed his pants. Seeing he was dry, he locked his knees together and wrapped his arms around them just in case.

     

“I don’t know,” Suzie was saying. “He wasn’t mean, I don’t think. He just really wanted something called a ‘zucker.’ He kept asking for zuckers.” 

     

“Oh. God. Oh, no,” her father said, turning away with his hand on his forehead.

    

“What? You know what he’s talking about?” said Suzie, shocked. 

      

Oliver looked up from his knees. Suzie waited impatiently.

 “Well,” her father said, sighing and sitting down on the coffee table, which he only did when very rattled. “Did I ever tell you about the other island?”

Chapter Two 

A recipe for happier holidays: Forgiving family members for not being how you want them to be.

One of the newer ornaments next to one missing her hat.

Growing up, my favorite Christmas ornaments were ones my mother had grown up with – little winged fairies that you could make float on the tree's branches. And when nearly all of those delicate ornaments fell apart, my sister made me new versions that I loved even more than the ones I grew up with.

That Was Cool.

Her gesture was especially meaningful because we had recently lost both of our parents, and were now decorating our own Christmas trees as young adults because our mother died when we were teenagers, then soon after her death, our father removed himself from our lives.

And while my sister and I had never been close, her thoughtful gift made me believe we could finally form that close bond I always wanted to have with her, especially now that she was the only immediate member I had left.

But we never got close. Instead, I spent the next 20 years chasing her affections, constantly examining every interaction for clues as to how I could make her love me like I wanted. Because I was certain that since I lost my mother and father so early, I had to then deserve a sister who loved me, right?

So I chased the fantasy of a devoted sister relentlessly until I finally had to decide that for my own sanity and happiness, I needed to accept that I would never get what I wanted. And instead of chasing someone who would never love me, I needed to give my time and love to the people who wanted to give their time and love to me.

Because love isn't given to us because we deserve it – it is just given, whether we deserve it or not. And everyone, even your family members, are never going to be exactly (or even partially) who you want them to be, they are only always going to be who they are.

And while relatives share your blood, they don't necessarily want to share your life. Often (and dare I say almost always?) the best families are the ones we create ourselves by finding people who love us because of who we are, not because we're related.

And, honestly, what’s cooler than someone being with you because that's where they decided to be, not because it's where they started out?

Of course, letting go of my sister was still one of the most difficult journeys I have ever embarked on, and is one I will likely never fully complete. But at least now I know I am finally making progress, because recently while decorating my tree, I realized I can finally look at those ornaments she made without being drowned by deep pain.

Now when I float those fairies on branches, I can remember how kind it was of my sister to make them for me, and simply appreciate that gesture without aching for anything more. And that feels very cool.

Super Cool Postscript: After this essay was recently published in the newspaper I work for, I began to feel embarrassed this week, fearing I had shared too much of myself. But then I got an email from a reader who said this:

"The tenderness with which you approach your feeling and hurts brought tears to my eyes. Your words of truth about how love is, or isn’t, resonates and really helps my poor heart. 

I am so grateful to you for writing this. I don’t feel quite so alone, and think that maybe there is a path for me out of the sadness that frequently consumes me."

These words made me feel that baring my soul was worth any embarrassment, and reminded me why writers feel compelled share our truths -- because at some point, we read the truth of others, and their words gave us strength.

Ukiah woman floats on stage as the Ghost of Christmas Past

Dell Linney as the Ghost of Christmas Past. (Photo by Chris Pugh)

We took my mother-in-law to see “A Christmas Carol” at the Ukiah Players Theatre, and all our trio wanted to talk about after the show was the woman playing the Ghost of Christmas Past, who looked like she was floating on stage as she kept her arms in constant motion.

That was cool.

Ukiah High graduate Dell Linney played the ghost, and said her flowing white outfit was designed to make her look like a floating candle, with her arms evoking its “smoky, flickering” flames. The plan worked, and I marveled at how long, and seemingly effortlessly, she kept moving her arms.

“I try to keep doing different motions,” said Linney, explaining that it is when you do the same movements over and over that your muscles really get tired. “The arm movement is something that I could always do, but I practiced to be able to maintain it for the play.”

Linney said she never timed the sequences she shows Scrooge from his past to see exactly how long she had to keep her arms in motion, but “we did rehearse over and over. And once it became normal to constantly be moving, I could put it on the back burner in my head and focus on the emotional delivery in the scenes.”

And it helps that "our Scrooge is so fun to act opposite and tease and patronize," she continued. She indeed had good chemistry with Chris Douthit's Scrooge, answering all of his increasingly frenetic energy with a stern calm that pokes and prods him until he admits the truth.

As for her flowing white outfit, Linney said her costume was imagined by director Jenny Peterman, who wanted "to create an interpretation as similar to the book as possible."

Another cool aspect Linney brought to the stage was a live turkey to stand in for the Christmas goose Scrooge has delivered to Bob Cratchit. 

“I bring him because he’s the most tame,” she said of the six-year-old Heritage turkey who plays Brother Turkey, explaining that her family raises the birds to sell as breeding pairs, not for meat.

But the turkey can’t be brought into the theater until his big reveal, because “he will ‘gobble’ when he gets startled, like when something loud happens on stage.”

Before she went on stage as the ghost, Linney said she hadn't really danced, “but the last few years (working with the theater) has helped me learn that I actually enjoy expressing something with physicality.”

My favorite iPhone function? “Block this Alcoholic.”

A mantra of Alcoholics Anonymous.

Someone with a drinking problem texted me once, likely hoping first for a sympathetic ear and next some money. After sending them a quick, “You need to stop drinking, don’t throw away your potential,” I blocked their number and all future communication.

That was cool.

That may sound cold to someone not raised at the mercy of an alcoholic, but I was, and I refuse to serve in anyone else’s war of addiction. I was drafted at birth, then only mercifully discharged two decades later when my father moved to another state.

 

Before that, my life was a bus route with only three stops: 1. he’s not drunk now but will be soon; 2. he’s drunk so avoid him; 3. he’s gone to bed so you can clean up all the messes, then try and get some sleep before you get back on the bus the next morning.

But even if your alcoholic moves away, you are never completely free from that bus if they can still drive it, and pull up to your door at any time. 

 

Like the Christmas morning I was spending with my friend when her father (yes, another drunk) showed up unannounced after driving across three states with his newest hungry children. 

 

They didn’t ask for food, but she knew they hadn’t eaten because he never fed her on drives like that, so we all sat down to a very uncomfortable breakfast that morning, proving there will never be a “Block this Contact” function that completely works on family.

 

But there is one on my phone now that works on other people. And man, that’s cool. Because while I can never protect younger me from the past, she does smile knowing I at least have the power to protect her now.