Jury Duty

 

Penguin in the juror parking garage

First of all, feel free to continue reading this without fear that either you or me will be in trouble. No one will be reading this until after the case is finished. The jury was instructed not to discuss the case with anyone until after the trial. Not with friends, neighbors, or spouses. I have neighbors and a few friends I don’t have to pay to be so. And you. What you are about to read is my blog about being seated on a criminal court case jury. So please, read on without fear of trouble. (Also, I’ve left out details of the crime and names.)

With all the legal news of late being such a huge cluster-fuq, I was feeling left out. The last time I was on a jury was about thirty years ago. It was a civil case where a dude was suing his ex lady because his corvette got keyed. We in the jury knew she did it—no questions. But there simply was not enough proof to find her guilty. 

The next time I had jury duty was again in Houston. I say again, because the dude who’s ex “supposedly” keyed his car was in Houston. That was prior to my moving to Annapolis in 1995. I was never selected for jury duty until I moved back to Houston in 2014. Five years in Maryland and fourteen in California and nada as far as jury duty. That second time, shortly after I moved back, I was not needed, and I was released around lunch time. I remember it well because on the freeway going back home was a Pancho’s all you can eat Mexican restaurant. Time to raise that little flag—the manner in which you indicated wanting more food.

 

Houston's old courthouse

I hadn’t been to Pancho’s since I was kid and I was surprised they were still in existence. It was imperative that I stop and give them a try for old memory’s sake. Either my memory was way off, my taste in food has drastically changed, or they have gone so far down hill that I thought I was in the shadow of Mount Shasta, but it wasn’t very good. I even noticed that their beloved sopapias I used to drown in honey now used honey-flavored syrup instead. But I digress.

The third time I was summoned to jury duty was just a few years back. This was a federal case, and dealt with a couple who were split up. The Mom and kids went to visit the grandparents down in Santiago, Chile, where the family had moved from. But they never made it back home, so the father was suing for custody. At that time I was flying to Santiago often, which may have been why I was not selected. I was let down. It was looking like the case could last over a week, and my job paid for any trips missed due to jury duty, so I would have made boo-coo bucks on top of being part of a real-life soap opera.

Fast forward to about six weeks back. Everyone and their ex-president was getting sued and going to court. I felt left out and was wishing I could get jury duty, so I actually stated aloud, “Gee. I sure hope I DON’T get jury duty.” Imagine my shock when about two weeks later, there it was in my mailbox: jury duty.

One thing I’m not keen on is driving downtown with rush hour traffic on a weekday, but there I was, listening to Duran Duran, Stevie Nicks, and The Pretenders, sipping on hot coffee, meandering down the interstate with the gorgeous Houston skyline looming up ahead. I was excited.

I’ll fast forward a few hours to me sitting in a court room with sixty-three other individuals. I answered only the questions I had to: three, B; I agree with you; and no. I made no comments. I added no discourse. I actually didn’t want to be selected for this trial. Well, seventy-five percent of me didn’t want to be. And certainly no one I spoke to that day wanted it. We were told the trial was expected to last five days: Monday through Friday of the following week. It took two hours reschedule all my appointments. The case was a gruesome murder with witnesses and a punishment phase if found guilty.

Fourteen juror numbers were eventually called. (There were twelve jurors and two alternates.) Mine was not. Just when the judge was about to set us free, and my feet planted to rise to leave the court room, there was some commotion up front. It would seem the clerk misread one of the numbers. That number was asked to return to the group and MY number was called to join the other thirteen in the jury box.

As I walked forward, I passed the judge, who had been keeping us laughing as much as possible. He made a comment about how close I was to being dismissed with the rest, and I replied, Yeah, I had just wiped my brow dry thinking I was saved. The whole room laughed. 

 

Downtown Houston

We got Friday off and were not expected back until Monday. In the mean time, we were not to divulge any information on this case, not even the nature of it, to anyone we knew. They said, you never know who may know someone who knows someone who knows something about this case and could say something about anything or anyone involving anyone or someone connected with this case; and we would not want to be influenced outside the court room. No looking things up, either.

 

The Testimony:

We didn’t need to be at court until 9:00/9:30AM, but the garage fills up by 8:15, so unless you want to pay for your own parking, it’s best to show up before then. Good thing I had just started a new book. I preferred arriving early for free downtown parking and could read my book.

Monday, we were warned not to discuss the case in the jury room. We could take notes, but they were not allowed to leave the jury room, and would not be allowed to be used during deliberation. We were not to leave the jury room. In fact, it was locked when we were left alone. I wondered how we would get out should there be a fire or explosion. When I brought this up, someone said, “Leave it to the flight attendant...”

The day was tedious, listening to witnesses and specialists. They fed us fairly good sub sandwiches for lunch. They went through the day’s witnesses faster than expected after lunch, so we were released around 3:30. The judge stated we would normally be there until five, so enjoy beating rush hour traffic. I did, getting home in about twenty minutes, which is fast. Really fast.

Day two was more of what we had during day one, except for lunch we were served personal pizzas. We also laughed a lot during our first break in the room together. There were a lot of side bars, where the lawyers approached the bench. The judge always held up a legal pad so we couldn’t read her lips, as if I could to save my life. At one point, the defense had an objection. The judge over ruled it, and he immediately replied to her, “Motion for mistrial.” She said, “Denied,” without batting an eye or even looking in his direction, almost as if she knew it were coming. It was soon afterwards that the defense had some things to say and asked that the jury be dismissed. So back to our room we went.

We were in good spirits. I admitted that I had almost chuckled to myself the prior day when I thought of the movie, “My Cousin Vinny,” and hoped the judge would say, “yutes.” Most of the room laughed and agreed that they had thought of the same movie. “Eye-dentical!: exclaimed someone. We were talkative and the mood was light. Some had a fear of a mistrial because of the defense calling for one, meaning we’d endured our three days up to that point for naught. But the bailiff returned and we took our seats n the jury box for the proceedings to continue.

The heavy stuff happened just before lunch, however: photos. Photos of the victim. The fourteen bullet holes. The entrance points and when there were some, the exit points. Photos of probes showing the path through the body of the bullets. We got to hear from the widow, who spoke of their four kids, ranging from adult to third grade. We got to see a photo of the decedent, smiling behind wide sunglasses, full of life, his youngest named after dad.

 

We returned to the jury room for lunch. We ate in silence. The light mood that we shared previously had fallen to the street, fourteen floors below. (Actual fourteen, as this building was one of the rare ones that had a thirteenth floor.) Of course, we were reminded not to speak about the case, but no one even wanted to. No one mentioned the difference from the last time we left that room with smiles, and jokes that were flying even in the hallway as we were about to enter the court room. The difference was night and day. Each of us bore a heavy weight in the reality of murder. This was not TV, and murder’s more than just a word when you’re on a jury.

 

Then, around 3:30, the state rested. I was shocked, mainly in that the state was presenting their case in such a way that I was totally leaning towards them. I assumed that when we went in after lunch, that the defense had something up their sleeve. The defendant had been so confident, even during the jury selection procedure. He smiled, looked us in the eyes, took many notes, was animated, conferred with his lawyers often, and did not in the least appear concerned that his future would be decided by twelve of his peers.

It was obvious, to me at any rate, that the fun was about to begin. It had taken the prosecutors two days to present their case. The defense was about to do the same, if not longer. If things went into the next week, they would start on Tuesday. Ugh!

We walked in and sat down. The judge asked the defense for any witnesses. They had none. She asked if the defense would rest. “Yes, your honor. The defense rests.” WHAAA??? 

That was it. We’d heard all there was to hear. The only thing left was the closing statements from both sides. There were two attorneys for each side. The young man for the state spoke first. Then the lawyer for the defense paced before us. He seemed to look at me quite a bit. I wore my best poker face. I listened to his closing statement closely. He came close to selling it. Then the other lawyer for the state got up. She had me moving closer to her side once more. 

 

Our courtroom was up on 14

The final nail in the coffin was the judge reading our charge, which essentially was this: If we found that the charged was guilty of causing, or creating to cause, bodily harm or death from the use of firearms, and there was no doubt, we were to find him guilty. I had no doubt. The man charged was placed at the scene by two parties, neither of whom entirely got along. Three eyewitnesses saw the shooting. They saw him run to hide, and the victim attempt to escape, but in failing to do so, the charged returned and emptied yet more bullets into the dead body. The forensics, the witnesses, the 911 recording that was played for us. There was no doubt.

 

 

 

The Verdict:

After receiving our charge as a jury, we returned to the jury room. As we left, there was a photo of the deceased showing on the screen next to the exit door into the private hallway. When I returned to my seat in the jury room, it was all I could do to keep the tears inside. We were again quiet. I broke the silence, stating, that was intense. Agreement all around. And a few other puffy eyes.

We chose a foreman and agreed to take a secret vote just to see where we all stood. If we were already unanimous, there was little need to drag it out. It came back ten guilty, two not. That was OK. Let’s hear them out. But what transpired was half an hour of debate as to where one of the witnesses stood, and was she credible, and how shell casings got to where they wound up. The next topic was about the bullet holes in the victim. Did he say fourteen holes, as in seven in and seven out...or fourteen entry holes? In my confusion, I read our charge again, given to us by the judge.

There was still some debate, so I broke in. Excuse me, but there was no denying the fact that the defendant was present at the scene, that the defendant had a firearm, that he disappeared for four days after the shooting...correct? We all agreed that he did the firing of the weapon. So it didn’t matter if there were three bullet holes or eighty. It didn’t matter if she was in the bedroom when it started, or at the door. Were we not charged to determine if the man sitting in that court room shot the deceased? It didn’t matter where the witnesses stood. I reminded them that the two parties didn’t get along, yet they both agreed who did the shooting. It wasn’t as if they had conspired against an innocent man.

When we agreed to take another vote, we were unanimous. I didn’t take careful note of the time, but we deliberated shy of an hour. When we returned to the court room, I tried to return in the exact fashion that I had each of the previous times I walked in. My face was stone. My posture erect. My attention towards the judge. As I sat, I quickly looked into the gallery. 

As during the previous two days, the family sat behind the prosecution, in honor of a murdered man. He had tattoos. He had been drinking. There were drugs in his system. None of that mattered. None of that played into the reason he was now dead with twenty-five new holes (three bullets never left his body). Seated behind the defense were others that represented the defense team. The charged had no friends or family of support. That struck me as I drove home that afternoon.

The judge silently read the verdict and asked that the foreman read it aloud. She then called each of us by our number and asked if we agreed with the verdict. Where most answered yes, or a few yes ma’am, I answered yes, your honor. We were thanked and informed that we would return the following day for sentencing.

We arrived on Wednesday quite optimistic that we would finish that day. We should have. We lined up at one point, the bailiff announced, “All rise for the jury,” but then we were stopped. The door closed and we stood in silence for a few minutes before the bailiff came out and opened the jury room door for us to return. 

We were used to spending a lot of time in the jury room. Most of us read. A few brought laptops and did some work. Nearly everyone spent time on their phones. The man next to me had nothing: no phone, no book, no laptop. He simply sat for hours on end, watching out the windows, looking at his hands, staring at the wall.

Just over an hour later, we were told to go home. We were free to await lunch, due in fifteen minutes, or leave, but we would not be back until Friday at 915AM. Of course, we were not told what was going on in the courtroom, but we were told not to look into anything or to discuss the trial. That wasn’t difficult for me. I couldn’t remember the name of the judge, had no idea the name of the prosecutors or the defending attorneys, and wanted to forget the name of man we found guilty.

Thursday, I was preparing for the next day when we received a text advising us to report no later than 11:45AM. We expected that we were going to be given bad news, such as a mistrial. All that work for naught. But we later found out that on Wednesday, the defendant was trying to play the card of insanity, so they had to call in experts to test him, which was supposed to happen Thursday, but they didn’t show up and were not rescheduled until 9AM Friday, which is why we were asked to arrive late. Of course he didn’t pass that test, but the court was obligated to play it all out, in the event of an appeal.

 

Sentencing:

Thinking that the hardest part was over was a huge mistake. After we were allowed back into the court room on Friday, we began to hear more testimony. It was past noon. We heard testimony from a fingerprint expert to verify that the prints were checked and matched against other prior arrests. Our man we found guilty had been busy committing other crimes. He was in prison four other times. His defense took issue with allowing some of the state exhibits into the record because the expert was not able to verify the fingerprint on some of the documents from the fingerprints taken after being found guilty. This was as if to say that these documents showing his past records of being incarcerated in the state of Texas could somehow be from other people with the same name, even though the inmate numbers all aligned.

We were asked to leave the court room and when we returned to our jury room, we found that pizza had been delivered...the same order we had placed on Tuesday. This was a most welcome development, being that most of us arrived just prior to 11AM, meaning when we left home, it was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. We didn’t think they would provide lunch.

 

 

 

We next heard from individuals who had previously been assaulted by the guilty man. There were new difficult photos of stab wounds and bruised heads. One man had not only been stabbed, but also beaten by the blunt end of a knife. Another man, when trying to defend himself, cut the defendant and managed to kick his hunting knife from his hands, only to be hit on the head by an eighteen pound pipe. He nearly bled to death waiting forty-five minutes for an ambulance, and didn’t come to for three days. He has permanent disabilities now. He was in his late sixties when this occurred.

Each witness testified about, and identified the man, charged with murder. Again, with each witness, the defense did their job well in trying to poke holes in the two cases. Before the first beating, the defendant had been in an argument, so he may have been defending himself. In the second, again, he had previously entered into a verbal fight, and it was unclear who first drew their knife, the defendant with the hunting knife, or the sixty something ex-Army dude with his Swiss Army knife. There were crazed glances happening in the jury box.

Finally, we heard once more from the widow. Her husband had been murdered on the day before his daughter’s birthday. She was at the store getting her cake when she got the call from the victim's mother to come to the hospital. The cake never made it out of the store. She was taken into a room and had to wait for a while before being told they tried to save her husband, but his wounds were too much. He had been shot fourteen times. She is constantly on the ready for calls from the school when the children can’t cope. She stated that adults know how to navigate the pain of loss. Children have not learned that skill. Hers is getting a crash course. The murder was four years ago, but now, each birthday is marred by the memory of a murdered father.

After her testimony, we were read our charge and released back to the jury room. It was 5PM. There was some hemming and hawing. If we believed the two stories of the beatings, we were to consider twenty-five years the minimum and up to ninety-nine years or life. If we believed one of the two, fifteen years was the minimum. If neither, we could consider five.

The defense, in their closing statement, suggested twenty-five. That spoke volumes.

I was the first to say that from what we heard a few days prior, when I arrived that morning, I was thinking of a floor of sixty years. But with the new testimony, I thought that was a low number. Others agreed with me. I pointed out that each time he had an altercation, he came back for more. The first witness had testified that they argued, but then he came back to beat them. The second witness was the same. The defendant could have left the scene of any of his crimes, but he always returned and caused bodily harm. The crime we found him guilty of was more of the same: he shot the man nearly dead, then came back and shot him more to finish the job.

The prosecutor said it best, they always hope a lesson is learned, so they tend to be lenient, hoping for the best. But their worst fear is when someone who gets a light sentence then goes out and does something worse. And there is no worse than murder. This man had a history. Four times in prison. Each crime got worse. Do not, he implored, let this man back out on the streets. The prosecution suggested life.

There was no dissent. We were unanimous in our jury voice. We agreed with the prosecutors.

Just to make sure, our foreman went around the room to hear from each of us if we agreed. When my turn, it was difficult to find my voice. Yes, I thought he deserved life. Yes, I thought about the victim and his grieving family. Yes, I thought of the others he had harmed and sent to the hospital. And yes, I thought about sending a man to spend the rest of his life behind bars. But to verbalize that yes was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever said. Three letters, which typically is something positive, on that afternoon, was sentencing a man to life behind bars. I could barely speak it, so gave two thumbs up, so there was no question.

One of the jurors asked if I was OK. Yes. I was. They all agreed that it wasn’t easy. It was a huge weight. I mentioned that when I was general manager of a business, and found times when I had to fire people, that I would tell them, “I am not firing you. You have fired yourself.” “Did that actually work?” I was asked. You bet it did. I’m sure not so much in this case, but my point was that  sentencing him was not done lightly. He had brought this sentence upon himself.

Back in the courtroom, the judge polled us one by one, asking if the charge read by our foreman was our vote. There was no hesitation from any of us. A resounding and firm YES.

I didn’t want to look at him, and I didn’t look into his eyes. But I did see that he was standing (he had to be asked) and that the bailiff had positioned himself directly behind him, just in case—and we wondered if he might not react. There was no emotion that I could perceive. The victim’s family was in the gallery. There was no celebration. There was really nothing to celebrate. Justice was served, but it was a heavy task.

Back in the jury room, we found that once again, our two alternates agreed with us wholly. After some time, the judge came in to explain why we were delayed until late that morning. She was forward with answering all of our questions. She asked if we would like to meet the lawyers, so they came in next, and we asked them questions and heard more about why certain elements were left out. They were happy that we caught on to how the proceedings went down. Even the defense attorneys knew he was guilty, but still had to defend him. And I loved hearing the defense attorney say he would never want to play cards with some of us for the poker face we showed him, as he looked right at me. He also told us that we found him guilty fifteen minutes faster than they anticipated, but we went over by ten in sentencing him to life. How interesting.

It was barely after 630PM when we finally filed outside the building and into the heat of a Houston evening. A few blocks away was the stadium where the Astros were about to play, so there were folks all around wearing Astros garb. The court case and our jury duty prevented a few from leaving town as planned. One young man was going to be late for his girlfriend’s birthday dinner celebration. Me? I saw a margarita in my future, but discovered that once I was home and fed, the last thing I wanted to do was to make or go out for a rita. Maybe later. 

 

A view where the Houston Astros play ball

Finding a man guilty was not fun, but an easy choice given the testimony. Sentencing him to life is not what I expected, and was one of the most difficult decisions I’d ever made. Thank goodness the death penalty wasn’t on the table. But in this situation, had it been, with the testimony provided, I think I could have said yes. Even to the death penalty. 

 

 

 

 

 

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Toodles

 

Itsy and Penguin in San Francisco

Written in 2021

No one in the world has an Itsy. No one but me, my brother, and my cousins. “Itsy?” People often ask and I’ve told this story so many times.

One of the perks of being the oldest grandson is being the first to name the grandmother. For the first three or so years of my life, we called her Gran. I have no memory of that. Believe it or not, I do recall the moment I named her.

Gran lived in the small town of Borger in the Texas Panhandle. Mom lived in Houston—a single mother of me. We had flown up for a visit while Mom’s grandmother was visiting. It would be the first time to meet my great-grandmother outside of infancy. Great Gran, as she was known, was a small, frail woman with gray hair. Gran had black hair above a younger, solid frame. 

 

Penguin's Mother, Big Gran, Penguin, Itsy Bitsy Gran

I’ll never forget standing in the living room and seeing Great Gran next to Gran, both with huge, adoring smiles beaming right at me from across the room. Mother leaned down to explain to me, “I’m your mommy, Gran is my mommy, and Great Gran is Gran’s mommy.” I looked them over, and even though my grandmother was a larger person than her mommy, I knew the smaller one was in charge. I looked at my mother and said, “No. That’s Big Gran, and that’s Itsy-bitsy Gran.” Cue laughter.

And so they were dubbed. For quite a few years I called her Itsy-bitsy, but after a while the bitsy was dropped and we just called her Itsy. When my Aunt Donna had grand kids, she was dubbed Bitsy, so the legend continues.

Borger City Hall

She and my grandfather, who was always Poppy, left that magical home in Borger and moved to Houston in the late nineties. Poppy died a few years later, after I moved to Maryland to run my father’s Harley dealership. Then I got a job with the airlines in 2000 and wound up in California. Over the course of the next fourteen years, I saw Itsy a few times a year. She came to visit with Mom and I drove them to Napa Valley for a wine tour. I made a nice lunch for a picnic under the redwood trees of one of the wineries. Visits were few, but special.

Main Street Borger

Itsy was getting up there in age, and the cost of living in the San Francisco area was leaving me to wonder if I was going to live paycheck to paycheck in a tiny rented apartment all my life, or move back to Houston, where things were more affordable. I could spend more time with Itsy while she was still with us.

Itsy wanted pancakes for lunch

I cherished my time with Itsy, buying a house just a mile south of hers. We got together monthly for lunch, just she and I. She had me over for dinner, or we’d have meals and fun times at the homes of her two daughters, my aunts Patty and Donna, who also lived nearby.

When her eyesight began to fade, and we were taking her to more and more doctor appointments, I began to notice her decline. I especially became aware of this when my mommy passed from cancer. “Oh...what are we going to do without our sweet Linda?” she’d ask. The first time she said it, my heart sank and my eyes wet.

After I got covid and began losing weight, she would ask me to show her. “Move over into the light. I can’t really see you, but I can see your shadow.” Then she would ooh, and aah over how much thinner that shadowed version of myself was.

Itsy’s eyesight continued to decline and her frame was shrinking. She spoke of upcoming doctor visits worried about the state she was in. She returned from doctor visits shocked at the good report. She was healthy for a woman in her nineties. Her brain was a steel trap. Her eyes were crap. She had been saying it for years, but more often after her eldest daughter passed, “I don’t know why I’m still here.” She was ready to go. But she was healthy enough that I knew we’d be celebrating her one hundredth birthday.

 

One day, Itsy was in her guest bathroom tidying up. She fell, using the shower curtain to brace her fall. When she landed between the tub and the toilet, she was unable to move and wouldn’t be found until the following morning. She spent the first few days in the hospital near my house. The same one that for years brought memories of when I went there for my first kidney stone, and more recently, where I lived for eight days with covid.

It was strange being in her home without her there. Her phone had recently gone dead, and one of my roles as caretaker, was to be responsible for her phone. A new one had arrived and I needed information from her file to set it up. I had a strange feeling; something told me Itsy would never see her home again. What an odd thing to foresee. Surely I was wrong.

After a few days in hospital, Itsy was transferred to a rehabilitation center a little further away. The distance didn’t stop me from a daily visit. While she was under good care in the center, they didn’t care for her like family. She couldn’t see well enough to eat on her own, and often having to wait to be fed when someone got around to feeding her.

I went once for lunch, but Itsy asked if I could come for dinner. Often, I entered her room to find her fast asleep, her mouth agog and an oxygen generator next to her bed demanding attention with it’s loud buzz. There were times it was turned off. I would later learn that it was my Aunt Donna who was turning it off. After all, they took her off oxygen in the hospital, and when sleeping, her mouth fell open, mostly negating its usefulness.

When entering Itsy’s room at the recovery center, I never knew what to expect. A few times she asked who was there, so I began by saying, “Hello Itsy. It’s me, your favorite eldest grandson.” I loved making her chuckle and her smile.

If not sleeping, I might find her in bed staring blindly into space. If she was sleeping, I wouldn’t wake her. It was therapeutic to sit in the dark corner of her room and watch over her. Our roles had switched— until college, she cared for me each summer. Now I got to return the favor. If she didn’t wake before dinner time, I would do so. The the jolt of waking to the loud knock, the sudden appearance of lights, and an orderly bursting in with her tray of food startled her.

On Sunday, the window shade was pulled down and I asked if she would like me to raise it to let in some natural light. It didn’t matter to her, since she couldn’t see anyway. She tended to martyr herself. I knew damned well that the light was better than the dark. At least she could better see the shadow of me. Being empowered to do as I pleased, up went the shade one-third of the way.

We always discussed the weather. It was pretty outside, so I described the scene to her. I raised the bed to get her ready for dinner and took the flip phone from the table and asked if she had made any calls. She had not, “I can barely see any names,” she told me. Getting her new phone mirrored to her old one was quite a chore. I finally learned that I could make adjustments to her list from my puter at home, but I couldn’t find out if it worked until the following day. On Saturday I failed to hit save. On Sunday the list needed to be tweaked again. Each evening I left Itsy with homework. Surely it would be correct on Monday. 

 

Itsy and Poppy with their 4 kids

Dinner arrived at nearly the same time each evening. I removed the lid to describe the meal to her. She said the food wasn’t very good. The eggs were awful and difficult to swallow. She was convinced they were made from powder. The bread wasn’t good, either. One day, I tasted her uneaten cornbread muffin. She wasn’t wrong.

Itsy couldn’t see the food on her plate and had trouble holding a fork. So many of her muscles had atrophied. Besides providing pleasant company, I was happy to help as much as I could. The staff at the facility were nice, but nothing beats family for assistance. Sunday was the seventh day at the rehabilitation center following four nights in the hospital near my house.

Between bites, we’d continue to chat. It rained at some point every day that week. She groaned as if she had to go out in it. I enjoyed serving her dinner. As her health declined, our lunches together became scarce. She rarely left the house. In the end, I talked her into allowing me to bring lunch to her house instead of going out. Her favorite was Whataburger: the small one, no cheese or mustard, but with onions. We shared a side of fries.

It really was hard not to make airplane sounds when feeding her. And I caught myself opening my mouth as she did. Having no kids of my own, thus lacking in experience, I was nervous the first time I fed her. How big of a bite should I be giving her? What proportion of main entree to vegetables? How long between bites? I never had cause to watch her eating routine. People have individual habits that can be hard and fast and my grandmother was as stubborn as me.

I found the best solution was to ask. After each bite, “OK, more of the chicken and dumplings or a bite of peas and carrots?” I paid attention to the amount of food I placed on the fork and dabbed her mouth as she chewed, if I got some on her lips. Each bite took a little planning: the size, the height, varying from one item to the next, being mindful of her teeth. Before I got the next bite ready, she often opened her mouth like a baby chick. We laughed when I told her to slow down. “I’m still getting the next bite ready.”

Dessert was her favorite. Most of the time it was a cup of canned fruit. Friday was a special day; they topped it with a dollop of whipped cream. She ate half the meal, but all of the dessert. When done, I’d move the tray to the dresser on the other side of the room, and rearranged her rolling table the way she liked it. I told her where everything was: “Your water is here, next to that is your flip phone,” (which was more of a security blanket for her) “next to that is your sippy-cup with OJ, and here is the box of tissues.” She would ‘aw’ like I had baked her a cake—she was adorable.

Dinner was done, so I adjusted the bed down, tucked the covers under her chin, and dimmed the lights. The sun was still out and filled the room nicely. We continued to visit, with periods of silence. These moments were never uncomfortable.

That day was the same as the day before, only Donna was out of town for a few days, so I stayed longer. When I arrived on Monday, I was happy to see Donna, her youngest child, but also disappointed. I would have come at lunch had I known, just so Itsy could have had a family member feed her two meals instead of one. Donna normally came at lunch; she stopped by on her way home.

I removed some pillows from the wheelchair that lived in the corner of the room and brought it over to sit next to her in front of the windows. “Itsy, your phone should now be exactly as you like it,” I announced proudly. She expressed excitement, and then the usual statement that she can’t see well enough to make any calls. Donna laughed. 

 

Itsy and her man

Itsy made some calls that day. She mistakenly called my cousin’s husband—someone she wouldn’t normally call. They wound up having a nice talk. Among the successful calls she made, one was to me.

Then Itsy boasted of her fifteen minutes “on the bike.” I looked to the floor at the exercise pedals. “That’s terrific, Isty. Fifteen minutes is longer than I biked today. You’ll be back home in no time.” I shared some good news about my job, which thrilled her.

She was full of excitement that day. Calls, exercise, and she stood for the first time since falling, getting on the scale. She said she gained a pound and forty ounces. Donna and I smiled. She meant four ounces, not forty. Donna corrected her mother, who was disappointed that it wasn’t forty. Itsy was tiny, so weight gain was good news. It was the happiest I’d seen her in some time.

Dinner arrived, and before the tray was set down I was able to announce that night’s meal. Each evening, an attendant came around with the menu for the following day. It was funny how she always slept through it. All those lunches together and taking her grocery shopping paid off; I knew what she liked and disliked. Sunday, I chose a sloppy Joe with vegetables. For breakfast Itsy would enjoy oatmeal, bacon and toast.

That night her meal was served in a Styrofoam clam-shell take-home container as opposed to the usual plate. Donna opened it and found the sloppy Joe on a perfectly round bun. To the side were some fries and corn. She asked about dessert, giving little attention to the entree. Applesauce pleased her only slightly.

Donna laid things out, moving the bed table in front of Itsy. Donna cut the sandwich in half and handed it to her. She ate half of that and then announced that it was time for dessert. Donna undid the plastic wrap and spoon fed her applesauce. She fed faster than me.

Itsy ate two thirds of dessert and was finished. I moved the clam shell back a bit and closed the lid. Itsy coughed a few times. Donna asked if she would like some water or orange juice to help wash things down and she asked for the orange juice. Her sippy-cup was nearly empty so Donna assisted me in filling her cup with the OJ I had ordered. Itsy downed a few gulps and started to cough more. She grimaced. I asked if the juice had gone down the wrong pipe. She waved us away, saying that she was fine. The coughing intensified causing her to lean forward in bed.

Thinking she might vomit, Donna grabbed the Styrofoam container and placed the lid portion under Itsy’s chin. “Here you go, Mom,” she said. “You can throw up if you need to. I have the container to catch anything. Just let it out.” I could tell my aunt had three children; she was so comforting and matter of fact.

Between coughs she said, “I’ll be fine...just...give me...a few minutes...” But the coughs were getting worse, now with gurgling in her lungs, much how children cough with that fluid sound in the windpipe. I watched her closely. My flight attendant training turned on. Might this be the first time I use the Heimlich maneuver? I began to plan out how to get behind her. She was so frail; I was afraid of hurting her.

She could still breathe and speak, assuring us that she was fine. Donna was beginning to look concerned. She put the container back on the table. I moved the table, pushing it near the corner of the room and tore off the lid, presenting it to Donna just case it was needed. She did cough up a little orange juice, which Donna wiped from her chin. I thought it was over, but she continued her state of duress. “I’ve never seen her do this,” I said to Donna. “I’ve seen it a few times, but never this bad,” She replied, her brow furrowed.

As she continued to cough, the deep gurgling got worse. This was not right. I left the room and walked quickly up the hall to the nurse station, “Hi, my grandmother down the hall just finished eating and she is now coughing. It sounds like she has a lot of fluid in her lungs. Could you assist us, please?”

Two men in scrubs followed me to the room. They immediately realized that Itsy was in trouble. One man left to get the supervisor, while the other went to Itsy’s right side. “We need to raise the bed but she’s seated too low,” he said as her lowered the bed flat. He directed me to the other side of her to help him scoot her body towards the top of the mattress. Carefully, I reached under her arm and dragged her up. He raised the bed so that she was seated upright.

Itsy leaned forward and the man lightly beat her back to assist the coughing. Donna looked upset—her hand over her mouth. I remained calm as she looked at me for support. It was concerning, but I thought Donna was overreacting. I realized that I was there for her as much as for Itsy.

As long as she could speak, I knew she was fine. “I’m not...choking. I will...be fine,” she stated between coughs. This was going on for about five minutes and was getting worse. I moved back as the other man returned with what felt like fifteen others in tow. Maybe it was five people; I’m not sure. The room was full of people dressed in scrubs. Even against the back wall, I felt in the way. I walked past Donna without a word. She followed me into the hall.

I was aware that my breathing was short and fast. Deep breaths, I thought. In through the nose...out through the mouth. I looked at Donna, who was visibly shaken. She lowered her hand from her mouth and studied me. I did my best to not appear scared. Until the room filled with orderlies, I wasn’t. I was in flight attendant mode: remain calm, project an image of authority, and carefully assess the situation. The training came naturally. But this was my Itsy. It was difficult to keep emotions at bay.

Several people left the room and we went back in. “We’re here, Mom,” Donna said. “We’re still right here.” I chimed in likewise, unsure that I wasn’t doing so to calm myself as much as her. The nurse ordered someone to fetch ‘the board.’ A man entered with a pulse oximeter, which he placed on her finger. After my bout with covid, I am quite familiar with these, and moved in for a better view. The safe range is around 95% and up, depending on the size and age of the patient. There were two numbers showing: forty-eight and seventy-one. I looked at Donna watching me, and shook my head in disbelief. I doubted her heart rate was forty-eight. I left the room.

“I saw you looking at the thing on her finger. What did it say?” “Well, I saw two numbers and neither were good,” I replied. She asked if Itsy was going to die. What? No. This was serious, but Itsy was breathing and talking. Itsy will be fine once she coughs it all up. She merely needs some assistance. Donna had her phone out and was trying to reach her husband.

 

Itsy and 4 adult kids

Someone announced that the paramedics had been called. I was now pacing the hall and Donna alternated between watching me and looking inside the room. Her phone in her hand, she was unable to reach her husband or sister. From the hallway, we couldn’t see her, so we went back in.

The coughing subsided. I saw that Itsy was heaving, as if taking deep breaths. She looked like a fish out of water and I couldn’t hear if she was breathing or not. She was looking blankly into space the way she does. “Itsy. Can you breathe?” I asked. My heart was sinking. Something was off.

I rushed to her left side, asking again if she could breathe. ...As long as she can breathe she will be fine. I placed my hand on her shoulder and looked at her. Her coloring wasn’t normal. Was it blue? I’d never seen anyone turn blue. She appeared flush and devoid of color. I asked again. She was not breathing, but straining to.

As I looked into her eyes, I flashed back to being with my mother at her time of death from cancer fifteen months prior. Itsy’s were the same as Mom’s the moment she passed: blank. Dark. Cold.

Itsy’s head fell against my arm. I knew. She was gone.

I remember nothing else of that moment. Somehow, in all the confusion, and with all the people, it was just my grandmother and me. It lasted only a few seconds. I have no memory of where Donna was or how many people were in the room. I do recall that I was the only person next to Itsy. Seeing her slump into me, several nurses rushed up and I moved away.

They prepared to administer CPR and I couldn’t watch. She was so frail. Giving her CPR would break her in half. Returning to the hallway, I noticed a nurse standing nearby who had been watching me. I could tell from his expression that he had seen her pass.

I walked to the exit windows at the end of the hall two rooms down. There could have been a circus parade or a flying whale. The only thing to register in my mind was the vision of Itsy’s eyes. It was so similar to Mom’s death. My calm, professionalism drained as I fell back into the role of Itsy’s grandchild. With tears now streaking down my face, Donna approached and we embraced. I could tell that she knew.

Happy Birthday

She was Mom’s sister—nine years my senior. During her later high school years, she often allowed me to tag along as she cruised up and down Main Street Borger. She was more like a cool sister than an aunt. The 8-track in her car introduced me to the music of Heart and Fleetwood Mac. We went to the country club pool to swim with her friends. I loved having her around when visiting Itsy and Poppy in the summer, and missed her when gone to college. The embrace we shared will last a lifetime, and for me has created a new bond.

From inside the room I could hear CPR being counted. Down the hall at the nurse station, the paramedics arrived with a gurney full of equipment. Donna shouted, “She’s in here...151!” They seemed to be moving so slowly. Donna shouted for them to hurry.

A woman approached and inquired about a do not resuscitate. I remember seeing her DNR wristband days ago, but realized she hadn’t had it on the last few visits. The lady asked if we could show her the paperwork. Donna said, “It’s not like I carry the letter with me.” The nurse asked, “Do you want us to try to save her life? Or should we stand back?”

Donna and I looked at one anther. Our roles were switching; Donna began to show the calm I had a few minutes ago. “Listen, she has a DNR. That was her wish. Do not resuscitate. I don’t have a letter. It is on her wrist band.” She looked at me, unsure. The facility supervisor approached. “Don’t you have a letter on file?” Donna, asked. I added that I had seen her wrist band. I think it was on the side table but I wasn’t sure. 

 

A beer with Poppy at his grave site

While the DNR issue was working out, Donna looked perplexed. “I don’t know,” she said leaning in. “Do you think we should try to save her?” Donna’s brown eyes were so sad. I realized that this wasn’t just my grandmother, it was her mother, and I remember all to well how painful losing Mom was.

I said quietly, “Even if they save her, she won’t be the same. She’s been without oxygen for several minutes now. She won’t be the Itsy we know, and it might make things even worse, medically.” I glanced at the paramedic and parroted what Donna said a moment sooner, “We should honer her wishes...”

The look in Donna’s eyes changed. With understanding, sadness, and dignity she found within her the authority of the decision. The nurse supervisor approached and confirmed that she had just spoken to Itsy’s doctor, and there is a DNR on file. My aunt repeated, “We should honor her wishes.”

With that the paramedic disappeared behind the closed door to Itsy’s room. My tears flowed more freely. A man in a black fire fighter’s uniform entered. The CPR counts ceased. I returned to the windows down the hall and looked up to the sky. There were patches of blue between clouds that appeared dirty, as if ready to release rain. I wished to be up there, far from that scene. Donna approached and we embraced again, crying on each other’s shoulder.

The male nurse who had earlier helped me position my grandmother approached and stated that we could enter—the first to arrive and the last to exit. I hadn’t noticed anyone leave the room; last I knew, there were at least five people with Itsy. The room was now empty. The lights were lowered. In the corner was the table with Itsy’s half eaten meal still sitting there. It felt like a lifetime ago that we fed her applesauce. The comfy chair from the side of her bed was moved into the restroom. The wheel chair was still in front of the window—its shade down two-thirds. Itsy’s bed was lowered for CPR and was now flat. A white blanket covered her completely. She looked even smaller now, as if life gave her mass. She appeared to be wrapped up like a caterpillar. It was quiet. So much so, I thought I could hear our tears hit the floor.

I went blank. I was alone in the world. What Donna said or did is a mystery to me. She may have placed a hand on Itsy’s shoulder. And I’m fairly certain I heard her say, “I love you, Mom.” 

 

At home

Her phone rang. It was her sister. Patty, who had not answered when we tried to call many minutes ago. Patty started talking immediately, going into detail of some social drama, so Donna had to interrupt her. Donna said that Itsy had passed. There were no words from the other end. I flashed back to Mom’s death, where Aunt Patty was the first person to call me. I was unable to speak for what must have been a full minute. After catching her breath, Patty's words were full of sadness and drowned with tears.

I called my brother Jason in Austin. He went quickly from shock, to anger, and then sadness. His family had just walked into a restaurant for dinner. I could hear his son ask what was wrong. We hung up.

Donna said that she needed to get home and find her husband, Uncle Mark. She simply couldn’t stay there any longer, and I completely understood. I told her that I couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not so soon. Itsy’s soul—her energy—may have left, but this was still my grandmother, and I couldn’t leave her. “I’m going to stay here,” I said. “For a little while, at least. I’m not ready to leave her.” We hugged and she left the room.

To the right side of the bed, on the floor, was the board they used when starting CPR. I moved it to the far wall. Kneeling beside Itsy, I placed my hand on her shoulder. Her hair was visible. I lifted the blanket gave my grandmother one last kiss on her forehead. Her mouth was open, just as it was every time I had watched her sleeping. For a moment I thought that was the case. She hadn’t died. She was sleeping. She looked at peace; her eyes were closed. I returned the blanket over her head. With my hand still on her shoulder, I wept.

It’s not uncommon for a person to clean after a loved one dies. I was such a person. I rose and crossed the room so that I could raise the shade of the window. I did the same with the next window. I had not seen that shade up since my first visit seven days prior. Was it seven days? Wow. I had come here daily, but it didn’t seem like seven times.

In the center of the room was a large, red emergency supply cart with many drawers of varying sizes brought in at the beginning. I rolled it into the hallway. The room was filled with natural light. There were a few tissues on the floor. One had been in her hand since the coughing began. The other is what I used to wipe her mouth as she ate. I picked these up and tossed them in the trash can under the television.

The red flip phone was visible on the table. Looking over at Itsy under the blanket, I couldn’t help but laugh. “And I just got your phone fixed the way you wanted it,” I said to her small blanket-wrapped frame. “Seriously?” I knew she enjoyed my chuckling—even if heard from some other realm. I expected a response and got none but in my head. I knew the gist of her silent response.

 

Silly birthday antics

Having arranged the room and lighting to my satisfaction I returned to my vigil at her side. I told her how wonderful it was that she was with her husband once more. He left us twenty-one years previous. He was the love of her life. He was the man I admired most. I could see them dancing. As a child, I loved to watch them cut a rug at country club parties and at weddings. I spoke to the empty room: Oh, Itsy, I can see you two dancing. I can see my own mother. And your mother too, Itsy. How nice to be together again. Mom, Itsy and Poppy, Big Gran, and even Aunt Betty (Big Gran’s sister) reunited.

My phone rang, startling me. It was Aunt Patty. She was in tears and asked me to give Itsy a final hug farewell from her. I promised. After hanging up, looking over to my tiny grandmother, I thought I saw her breathe. She was just napping. In a moment she will awaken and ask for her red flip phone. It is natural to see the steady rise and fall of someone under a blanket. My mind played cruel tricks.

A woman knocked and asked if she should take the dinner tray away. She had no idea what just happened in that room. “No, please come back later,” I said. She left, and I pushed the large comfy chair back to the corner of the room. I thought, yesterday a happy man sat in this chair. Today I’m grieving. Before sitting, I remembered Patty’s request. I draped my left arm across Itsy. “This is from Patty. It’s also for your son, Mike. And for all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will miss our Itsy so much.” I cried. The hug lasted several minutes. There were a lot of family to consider so it had to be a big hug.

In that chair, time paused as I alternated looking out the window, to Itsy, and the ceiling. Seeing the clock on the wall enabled me to assess that she passed away around a quarter to six. It was now nearly seven. My phone rang several times. Uncle Mark checked in on me. My brother called for more details of what happened. Then Donna called to invite me to Itsy’s house, where she, Patty, my cousin, Garrett, and Uncle Mark were gathered.

I was now ready to leave her room that had been filled with love, frustration, confusion, horror, and grief. There were two bags in the closet of Itsy’s. I placed her personal affects in these bags: her hair brush, some Pjs, undergarments, tiny shoes that fit her delicate feet. I checked her night stand and in the bathroom. I checked the rolling table, that still held Itsy’s last meal. The applesauce sat quietly. I chuckled and looked over to speak to Itsy. “You know, Mom’s final bite of food was a grape. One solitary grape. Yours was applesauce. Now I’ll think of you when I see it, just like green grapes remind me of Mom.”

Before leaving, I sat in the big chair and spoke to Itsy. I couldn’t simply leave the room without saying anything. Suddenly I was bawling once more. When I managed to speak, I said, “All I wanted to do was feed you dinner. That’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t want this...but I know it was your time. I know, Itsy. I have heard you wonder out loud why you were still here for at least a year. I’m happy you are now at peace. I love you, Itsy Bitsy.” If I walked briskly to the front exit, maybe no one would notice my swollen red eyes.

At Itsy’s house, everything was surreal. I felt that her fall meant that she would never see this house again. I had mentioned it to friends. How sad it was that it came true. It was odd being there when she was recovering. It was more so now that she was gone. Uncle Mark presumed that she aspirated, not an uncommon way for someone in Itsy’s condition to pass.

 

Pizza with Itsy

I entered through the garage and shouted hello. Donna and her son Garrett sat at the kitchen table. Patty was pacing the entry foyer speaking to someone on her phone. I made a beeline to the fridge. Donna saw me looking up and down for something. Itsy’s fridge was always mostly empty; she ate so little. Anything being sought should be easy to find. Donna asked what I was searching for. “Wine,” I said. “Last week there were two small boxes of wine. They seem to have disappeared.” 

Closing the refrigerator door, I went directly to the wine table where Itsy always had a few bottles. Before I reached the table, Donna suggested I open a bottle. I was way ahead of her, and poured a glass for each person present.

When Patty’s call ended she joined us at the table. We toasted to Itsy and Poppy—together again. Stories were told by all of us. So many grand memories. Donna thought it was strange how she and I were there Thursday before her fall. “The two of us were the last to see Itsy before she fell. The two of us were there when she died.” Donna told me that when I left the room for help, Itsy admitted that she was in trouble. I pointed out that she passed with her youngest child and oldest grandchild.

There were numerous strange things that day, like calls she made to people she normally wouldn't call. Since I saw her regularly, her daily calls stopped, yet she called me that morning. She stood for the first time, peddled, got her hair washed. It was almost as if she knew. It gave me goosebumps.

It was just after 11PM when we left. I was a zombie the next day. Between calls from friends offering their condolences, I mulled over memories. Things didn’t feel right without her daily call, usually around 10AM. The world was strange without Itsy—a feeling identical to what I felt the morning after Mom passed.

Many thoughts came and went. I was with Itsy in Borger when I learned the reason for snow is so little boys can play in it, and build snowmen with their grandfather. She taught me the best thing with vanilla ice cream is a fresh, sliced peach, that yogurt is not a dessert, and there was nothing better than one of her famous grilled cheese sandwiches topped with Gouldin’s mustard. My fridge is never without it, but my grilled cheese is never as good. I learned how to iron from watching my grandmother, how to play cards, and use the phrase, “waste not, want not.” It went particularly well at the end of a meal. So many memories of her will last forever.

When bidding farewell, Itsy was known for saying “Toodle-oo,” or sometimes “toodles.” On the rare occasion she didn’t, I felt robbed. Life won’t be the same without my grandmother’s parting word. I’ve heard others us the term, but no one can ever use that sentiment better, and it won’t feel the same when anyone else says it. But I want to keep her tradition going by adopting it for myself; in honor of my sweet grandmother.

I’ll see you on the other side, Itsy. Toodle-oo.

 

Cheers to Itsy from Penguin's mom

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13th Floor Field Trip: To Hell and Back

 

Excited to be at a new haunt

What happens when you take a group of friends who work together in a haunted house attraction, pile them into a recreational vehicle, and drive 3 hours to a different diabolical destination in the middle of Nowhere, Texas? Much hilarity, that’s what.

13th Floor at Scream Hollow

 

 

If you read my blog about Scare Therapy, you know where I sit in regards to being a part of the horror industry. There’s nothing like working a scary room and yelling at strangers who paid good money to scream like babies when I lurch at them in Klown makeup, my eyes as wide as Jason’s Crystal Lake in “Friday the 13^th.” So when I heard about the Summer Monster Bash at Scream Hollow, just south of Bastrop, Texas, I was in- like one of Jason’s finger knives into young flesh. I also don’t like doing things alone, so I rounded up the posse. And Mark’s offer to drive us in his nice thirty-five foot RV didn’t hurt.

Figuring out the best weekend to go, what time to meet, and other necessary plans, was like trying to take a family photo of fifty spiders. Exasperated, I called Mark and he agreed that we should just make plans and let the pieces fall where they may. The next two weeks were spent herding cats.

The players:

Mark, eternally known for his early arrivals (he even won a freaking medal from The 13^th Floor management). As one of my fellow elders in the haunt, I think he loves haunted houses as much as I do. He lives 1000 miles from the haunt, figuratively, and his boys often make the drive just to pass through our huge maze of horrors, monsters, and spirits. His youngest son Landon came along. He is eleven.

 

Mark, Seth, Angel, Dee

Dee came on board next. She and I worked great together during the Valentine’s Day “Love Bites” event. She made the first scare, sending the humans off their guard—“Well, she was scary; now to the next room for another scare.” But before they left the room, I—a vile vampire—leapt from a standing wooden coffin in the corner. I don’t know when I’ve birthed more screams in a single night.

Derek is a brassy fellow with a flashy car and a penchant for running after people with a chainsaw, and was the next to saddle up. I think Derek lives with the deaf. Or maybe he’s always talking over a running chainsaw. Dude. I’m right next to you.

 

Dee, Seth, Angel, Jayce

Then there is the dynamic duo of spicy chicken enthusiasts, Jayce and Angel, who inspired what we now call “Chickenings:” excursions to Nashville hot chicken places in the North Houston area for meals that last up to nine hours, since Jayce likes to stretch a meal of two tender sandwiches for ever, as if the electric chair was his next stop.

Lest we forget his boy wonder, Angel, who can pair two words into one, like a sinister minister at a wedding ceremony. Angel is quite dependent on others for rides after his brother totaled his car—which is trivial, since his parents never let him drive. At least he doesn’t get in a car without asking permission.

Gage

Also with us was Gage, a fellow Texan who in his past life grew old in New England, and has yet to lose the accent completely, as it tends to slip out in conversation. Either that, or he is secretly possessed by one of the Kennedys.  “Chow-dah.”

Rounding out the group was a friend of Mark’s named Seth. He loves horror so much that he came with us after knowing Mark only a week. Brave soul. We spent much of the day trying to convince him to come work with us next season, even though, like Mark, he lives 999 miles away. Figuratively. He’s eager to learn more about it. (As can you, at the website: 13thfloorhouston.com.)

There were other haunt friends we hoped would join but couldn’t. In the end it worked out perfectly, as Mark would need to get us a larger RV, or add a bus to his fleet. For each seat there was a beastly butt bouncing along the Texas highway to hellish adventures on a sultry Saturday afternoon in June. The perfect day for a teen-skinny-dipping-in-the-lake slasher to sit back with a cold one. And then go kill.

The scheme:

Be at 13^th Floor at 1PM. We said 1PM because of the rounding up spiders thing. We wanted to leave by 2PM, but if we said two, we’d leave at three. So be there at one. My years as general manager for a haunt in California taught me such tactics. Zombies have little use for time.

Just up the road from Scream Hollow is The Gas Station, used in filming “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” I’d been there before and knew about their tasty BBQ and decent shop of everything horror. In back, they even have a van identical to the one in the movie.

The Gas Station

I planned a recess of a few hours here, to allow the gang to shop, get a bite to eat, and prepare for an evening in the woods at Scream Hollow. It was a capitol idea, and a true highlight for everyone. Many items were purchased; we depleted their supply of BBQ nachos (much to Dee’s dismay, being the first to order them after they ran out); and spent time socializing with the muscled young man behind the Gas Station counter, who would surely be among the first to die in a horror movie because of his good looks and charm. The pretty always die first.

Since the Scream Hollow gates opened at 7PM, we could hang like bodies on hooks at the gas station until 6:50 (you HAVE seen Texas Chainsaw Massacre, right?). It was literally three miles down the road. Even Leatherface and his chainsaw could sashay to the haunt in the time it would take us to drive there. That man and his weapon can move in concert together like they share a soul.

Everyone asked when we’d return to Houston, which was difficult to pin down. How crowded would the Scream Hollow Monster Bash be? Besides the four haunted houses, there was also a Halloween museum, a band, three bars, two pubs, and a bakery. We might have so much fun they’d have to pry us out. It closed at midnight, according to their web site, so we might get back at 3AM.

Equipped with an on-board fridge and microwave, we were encouraged to bring vittles and libations. I only travel in style, so was first to offer up refreshments. This lively group would surely enjoy my balls. I’ve only had the recipe for a few years. Vanilla wafers, walnuts, honey, and rum combine for tasty rum balls rolled in, for this horror-ific occasion, red sugar crystals. They looked like they were covered in fresh blood.

Making my balls

Also, Mark loves to open and eat all the jam packets on the table when we post-game at Denny’s after a night of terrorizing at the haunt, so I made a special family recipe: Jam Bars, concocted with strawberry jam, to match my bloody balls. I also included a few bags of crisp snacky things, and rounding out with my infamous mocha-coffee-hazelnut-liqueur concoction: Penguin Juice.

Mark brought a wonderful jalapeno dip his mother-in-law crafted, drinks, and sundry other items. Dee engineered jello shots (a few were blue virgins for the boy, so he could feel a part of our party), and brought kolaches, and beer. Derek contributed a bottle of tequila that lived in the freezer when not polluting our minds during the voyage.

Speaking of voyage, the RV cum-land yacht tended to rock and roll like a boat on the high seas. “It’s top-heavy, so she’ll roll like this a lot,” Mark said, sending a chill down my spine each time he drifted slightly in one direction, and then jerking back to center lane, crafting visions of us landing on our side, like a beached whale stinking up the shore. 

 

On the road with Mark at the wheel

It was around 12:30 when the dysfunctional duo decided they couldn’t stand missing out. We arranged to have Jayce pick up Angel, meaning they wouldn’t arrive until 1:15. Groans from the gang caused me to reveal the plan of padding departure by an hour, so all were placated. “Have a kolache and a beer and hold tight.” When we pulled onto FM 1960, it was 1:55PM. I love perfectly integrated itineraries. With this group of slack screws, I deserve a medal for pulling that off.

We rolled merrily down the road munching, sipping, and tonguing jello from shallow plastic cups, while jamming to tunes from Derek the DJ. At one point, I opined that this, a road trip in an RV to a haunted house in the middle of nowhere, had the makings of a perfect horror movie, a-la “The Haunt.” And as we bounced through Bastrop and turned down the road on which were our despicable destinations, the tension flourished like kids to a house giving out full-sized candy bars at Halloween.

“There it is! The Gas Station!” “They don’t even sell gas. Why is this called a gas station.” “It’s where they filmed parts of TX Chainsaw. And they serve BBQ.” “Correction. They don’t just serve BBQ. According to the sign, they slaughter BBQ.” “If only that blue car would move, we could park right there…” And as if by the gods, the blue car’s reverse lights came on and left the perfect place for us to back into. 

 

Shopping at the Gas Station

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The group gushed like ghouls to fresh meat over the bench on the front porch, dedicated to the movie’s actors who’ve gone before us, before going inside to do the same over the life sized movie monsters. We picked over shirts, Christmas stockings, action figures, pins, DVDs and bluerays, monster bobble-heads, and the menu of BBQ and sides, akin to werewolves on corpses. We were like kids in a candy store. No. Ghouls in a graveyard. Bats in a belfry. A slasher film killer at summer camp. Soon, everyone had bags of horror memorabilia and were out back under the breezeway, along with 5,000 flies. While the others ate, I retreated to the RV to prepare for the main attraction: the monster bash. 

 

Caleb at The Gas Station

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I applied makeup to recreate Whisper’s the Klown: my iconic creation from Dr. Evil’s House of Horrors, back in Guerneville, CA. As GM, there were times I was too beat to don the klown’s persona—so full of energy was he, and quite a workout on my voice. He was named Whispers for his inability to speak anything in decibels under rock concert level. Any time I portrayed Veemana instead, people inevitably asked for Whispers. I felt horrible for letting them down. Now that I’ve lost weight, my old costume pieces were simply too huge—in a strong storm, I’d could end up over the rainbow in the land of Oz and those menacing munchkins. 

 

Whisper in the breezeway

When a new Whispers emerged with the worrisome smile, arms of torn flesh exposing sinewy muscle and bones, and a black and white striped shirt with clown tie, everyone raved. So did Caleb, the besieged upon young man behind the counter, who somehow was still alive.

It was nearly seven and we couldn’t wait to get to the Monster Bash. We turned off the highway and onto a dirt road through thick forestation. I darkly announced, “And they were never seen nor heard from again.” Cue nervous laughter. None of us had been there. It would be the perfect guise to lure the unsuspecting to a murder barn.

 

 

 

Welcome to the Monster Bash

From the front, Scream Hollow appeared as a Renaissance Festival, where skulls replaced Beefeaters and witches instead of wenches. There was a main entrance behind ominous castle walls. The fence up front festooned with banners acclaiming their prominence as one of the top ten haunts in the US, and certainly—perhaps because they were the only one—the best in Bastrop County.

We were directed to park up the hill in a field. The only way to get the behemoth camper bus through the gate was to do a five-point turn behind someone’s home, entering the field at its furthest boundary from the event. Only then could we off-road through the grass and plant ourselves next to a tree and extend the RV slide-outs to start the party. 

 

It was just past seven and we had an hour before their dusk opening. Envious of my alluring good looks, nearly everyone chose to apply makeup. I was the only one who brought any, so Dee and Derek took turns playing makeup artist. We were a ghostly group of ghouls spent on convincing Scream Hollow to allow us to help scare the squeamish spectators into a frenzy, when all was said and done.

Derek the makeup artist

That wouldn’t happen, but we did meet some nice monsters. There were several creepy clowns in garish get ups; a creature by the name of Lu C. Screws, who was all about her crabs, Blazy and Itchy; and some sort of man with the bill of a duck, except his was lumpy. There were clown girls (one called me a Walmart version of a clown) and a woman with the head of a possum and a right arm sporting a dirty dog creature (so happy when that disgusting puppet...thing...kissed me on the cheek). And what haunt wouldn’t be complete without a chainsaw-yielding creature chasing us out the exits?

Forecourt of the houses

 

We first chose first to analyze the twists and turns of the Asylum, before witnessing the wretchedness of the Witches Coven. Next we entered the Wicked Darkness haunt, aptly named for its complete and utter darkness and all horrors that fester without light. Finally, my favorite, the complete chaos of those crazy clowns in the Clown House. In each house were so many twists and turns that more than once we were unsure of which direction to proceed. We enjoyed the numerous props springing, lunging, thumping and swooping. We lamented that 13^th Floor had so many broken mechanical props compared to theirs, lurching towards us from the dark. I delighted in the singular scare that got me all evening: a blast of unexpected compressed air. It was awesome.

After the thrill of the four houses of terror, some of us were ready for the haunted hayride that promised sightings of skinwalkers and mythical creatures that feast on the souls of the living. But Angel wanted to play in the dirt with the duck-billed man for what felt like an hour- the most painful thing we endured up to then. Jayce could have finished a meal before we finally rounded up the spiders to get going, so we could drink, dine, and enjoy the music at the bash.

 

Clown House

 

Like our Halfway to Halloween, Scream Hollow was short of actors for the Monster Bash. There were swaths of haunted house deprived of the depraved, seeking to scare the bejesus out of the unsuspecting. Some of the monsters followed us throughout each haunted attraction. We constantly boasted our representing The 13^th Floor. Many monsters were happy about this, having been to and enjoyed our haunt. And at the hayride, the ticket taker overheard mention of ‘13^th Floor’ as we approached in the snaking line. As the boisterous being of the night that he was, he began to besmirch our beloved little haunt.

“Hey, now. We’re all one big family of monsters who should support each other's haunts. We’ll have none of that,” I said. “Yeah, we work there. We’re here to represent another great Texas haunt,” said another. He changed his tune quickly and we had a nice chat with him about how much we enjoyed our time there. Our Halloween season is so long and cumbersome, we don’t often have the opportunity to explore other fright fests.

Birds of a feather

Finally, a green tractor pulling a trailer lined with bales of hay arrived. We boarded, and went down the country lane, through darkened trees, with a cool wind whipping up under a blanket of lightning filled clouds. It was a cold front. “If it starts raining on us, it’s Angel’s fault for spending half an hour playing in the dirt,” I said.

Drops of rain began to tease us as the host told her tales of terror among the ominous, swaying trees. At one point we came to a stop for a tree that was felled across the road. The driver had to alight and assist a monster in clearing the debris before we could venture forward. The trickle of drops turned to torrential rain before we returned. If the looks I flashed Angel could kill… We hastily said farewell as we joined a group of humans inside the covered safety of a bar.

“Um. You are all over 21, right?” asked the well witch. Standing next to me was Landon, who was all of eleven. Next to him was Angel, all of twenty. I took a step left to hide Landon and ignored Angel’s presence, “Yup. We are all that.”

 

Across from us was the Halloween museum, purported to be the only one in the US. Nearby were actors in hushed tones implying there was a decision to shut down early due to the storm. “We best go through the museum now, before they close,” I suggested. “Good idea,” came a reply. We dashed across the road and entered the gift shop. We were ushered into a hallway with a very detailed timeline of the history of Halloween. It was fascinating, and I need to return when not being rushed by others not as intensely interested in a thorough read.

Vintage decor

The museum was in three buildings. It covered witches, answering why they wear pointed hats. One room was filled with vintage masks and decor. It was here that one brave soul asked if I was familiar with the more ancient aspects of the holiday. (Don’t clown around with a creepy Klown, if you know what’s good for you; and implying said klown is old is not a careful thing to do.)

Do not touch this piano

There was a room full of Ouija boards and another was filled with medical horrors. Rooms were dedicated to movie monsters, complete with replicas of Frankenstein’s Monster and vampires; and to haunted toys encased behind signs warning, DO NOT OPEN. There was also a piano warning not to be touched, purportedly for bringing ill luck to those who had. Gage couldn’t pass up the chance to test this out, and this began a series of us touching the next person to pass the bad juju along.

 

 

Once back in the gift shop, more things were purchased, while others ventured in search of food. After pizza, and teasing Dee that they had BBQ nachos in good supply, there was one last gift shop of the day...that of our host, Scream Hollow. Their pride in their wares placed items out of the reach of my wallet, so I bought nothing, despite being tempted by numerous shirts and magical items. Perhaps after I’ve recovered from Long Covid and can return to the job I love so much…

Some of the haunted toys

Whispers and the witch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The rain ended and the park was closing. We said a final farewell to some of our new friends before traipsing through the damp field towards the RV. We decompressed inside. My injured knee hurt and my feet were so sore that they demanded to be released from their shoe prisons post haste. I removed my wig and zombie arm sleeves. The rain returned and the sky continued to flash with bolts of lightning. Drinks were served, dip was warmed, and I brought my balls out once more for those who enjoy rum balls, and before long, we voted to hit the road. As if I traveled through time in drafting our itinerary, it was midnight. Look at me go.

Getting out of that rain-soaked field in the dark was not as easy as getting into it. With Derek’s head out the window shouting directions, and more backseat drivers than back seats (“You’ll never fit through there!” “Are we stuck in mud?”). We made numerous attempts to escape. At one point the bus lurched left and sprang back to the right, tossing everything from the kitchen counter to the floor; it even sent the coffee maker to its untimely death. Groans and exclamations emanated from the peanut gallery. We had run over a log, and thus developed a new exit strategy: let’s go out the way we came in; not through the exit, but the entrance.

We squeezed through trees, which dug their bony branches along the side of the RV, with sounds of the sort that had me look at Dee while wincing in pain for what it must be doing to his wonderful motor home. Surely he was now regretting having offered it up for our odyssey. We got to re-live the five-point turn in back of that home before leaving through the main gate. Farewell Scream Hollow. 

 

I don't know

As if more bad luck might await our return via Hwy 290 to the north, Mark chose to return to Houston on I-10 to the south. The returning rain chose the same route. There was spectacular lightning streaking through the sky like sexy flashes of naked light. Cards Against Humanity came out while Seth and Angel fell asleep. This sleep was interrupted often with excited laughter and shouts of things such as, penis, vagina, the Jews, finger dicks, same sex ice dancing, and other such things normal people wouldn’t speak out loud. Landon was getting an education.

 

 

Before we hit Katy, Texas, Mark had to stop at Buc-ees for the second time that day. I was floored upon inspecting the exterior to find such little damage to the motor coach. Shouldn’t there be huge gashes of missing paint? It sounded so horrible how those trees scraped and groaned across the exterior. Much like Whispers under a full moon—which was hiding above the clouds that very night—but everything looked fine.

Penguin and the road beast

Back on the ten, Mark pointed out where he lived. “Ah. So we’re fifteen hours from the 13^th Floor,” we joked. There was crazy talk about stopping by Katy’s house (our fearless entertainment director) to say hello. We took the tollway back to 249, exited FM 1960, and rolled into the parking lot at 13^th Floor a quarter after three. I heard no compliments to my covid-weakened mind skills at making plans with near military timing. My German heritage hit the mark.

Penguin and Landon

We gathered our things, said farewell, ran through the rain to our awaiting cars, and by the time I dropped off Angel, got my things inside the house, showered my face paint off (farewell Whispers 2.0) and got in bed, it was 4:30 in the morning. It’s not every day I am up that late. My feet were in pain and my busted knee was murder. My brain was dead. I was so fatigued, I hardly recall driving home.

The following day was for boasting at how epic our adventure had been. Photos were shared, affection for those who couldn’t attend expressed, and new plans laid for further field trips to other locations, such as the Texas Chainsaw Massacre house to the west of Austin. Or even a return to Scream Hollow the next weekend. After all, now that Mark had mastered a perfect escape from the parking field from hell, why not? You’ve been warned. Prepare to read about the 13^th Floor field trip part two: Scare Safari of Scourge.

 

Is there someone behind me?

Special thanks to Savannah Mims for the edit assistance.

Do you know a horror-themed field trip we can take? Leave a comment below.

 

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