Monday, September 2, 2019

September Sights and Sounds

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston




It's labor day 2019 and my head is foggy with the sleeplessness of the night before. The storms were big and loud and long. The humidity rose unexpectedly and the breeze through my third floor windows was not enough to keep me cool enough for a restful sleep. The dog barked in fear. My daughters radio blasted music from beneath her closed door.

Eventually the storm died out and sleep came back to me in fits and starts.

The morning brought chatter from my youngest and her friend. The news blared from the kitchen TV with more stories about guns and hurricanes. It seems peril is everywhere. Everywhere but here. My home is safe and cozy even with the nonstop talking and bickering between all of us.

Later, I turned on a movie because it's that kid of day-cloudy and damp. The yard is soaked from the torrential rains. A mist and drizzle persists. I try to tune out all the background noise and focus on the actors before me. 

The family exits returning my oldest daughter to college after her long weekend home. I stifle the tears pricking my eyes as I say goodbye once again wondering when I will see her again. I think she was too.

I stay behind to recharge and regroup with much needed alone time. 

The movie (The Women in Black) was perfect. It was compelling without tragedy. (There is enough real life tragedy I don't need fictionalized trauma.) It was happy but not trite. I was left feeling better than I was when it started. 

I noticed the sun peeking through the thick curtain of grey clouds and allowed myself to be drawn outside to sit in the yard. I resisted the urge to put on music or listen to an audio book. 

I just sat and looked and listened enjoying the quiet.

The ice cream truck chimed its tunes in the distance trying to coax the last customers of summer out of their homes and into the rain for a frozen treat.

The wind rustled the leaves making that ruffled sound that we will not have for much longer as Autumn can be felt and smelled in the breeze. The broken umbrella creaks in the wind sounding a bit like the doors in all the haunted houses that will spring up soon.



The bees buzzed my sedum getting the last of the flower pollen before all the blooms die off. The crickets and other creatures chirped, and trilled, and sang the songs of evening even though it was just late afternoon.

The birds were quiet. I suppose they are leaving unnoticed for warmer places.

I could hear the water seeping into the ground in the places that were turned to bog in the late summer storm.




I saw the fading flowers in my pots and gardens in the backdrop of more vibrant and hardy species like my dinner plate Hibiscus.



The vegetable garden was decorated with pretty pests like the Japanese Beetles. A few tomatoes struggle to turn red before it's too late for them.


The pear tree has one last pear to offer. Last year we had dozens. This year blight limited our crop to just three.


The grape vines drip with fruit both green and purple. A good pruning will make them flourish next year. 

The yard is still pretty and inviting even with the fall approaching. 

Last night we had a fire to warm us in the cool evening air. The scent of burnt wood lingers.

My reverie is suddenly interrupted by the return of my family minus one. The truck pulls in, the doors slam, the dog barks in greeting. My youngest daughter is still talking, she never stops. She comes in with stories to tell even without an audience. 

I suppose I might be doing the same. Even with no one listening or not many, it feels good to share.

Enjoy these days while they last.

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Making the world a better place one quarter at a time: How ALDI is changing the world for the better.

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston




Times are tough. Mass shootings are happening more than daily. We had 4 shootings in the last 24 hours. I believe the latest statistic shows more 253 mass shootings in the last 216 days.

I am scared.

I want to cry.

I want to scream

With these incidences, we cannot deny that we are living in a divisive and violent world. We are polarized by politics, racism, sexism, poverty,  wealth, climate change and many other factors.

I can’t help but feel that we are meaner, more judgmental and more isolated than ever before. We cannot agree to disagree. Instead, we launch anonymous insults over social media. We unfriend and unfollow each other. We say hateful things with no regard to who we might be offending. We no longer talk and listen. We make snap judgements based on sound bites and other people’s opinions. We refuse to meet in the middle. We wave and wear symbols of hate

We do virtually nothing to make the change we need.

Before the world got so complicated, I allowed the little things in day to day life make me angry. I would rail against the small injustices like line cutters or mispriced merchandise. These minor infractions got my ire up sometimes to boiling. It’s funny how just making it out of a store without being shot is the current goal. Coupons and grabbing the last bargain off the shelf no longer matter.

Before gun violence distracted my shopping adventures, one of my biggest annoyances at the grocery store revolved around shopping carts. I would pull into a parking spot only to discover that some thoughtless patron had left his or her cart smack dab in the middle of the diagonal lines marking the deceptively available spot.

This left me with some hard choices. A) I could put the car in park, get out and move the cart. B) I could use my car to nudge the cart out of the way. C) I could relocate hoping to find another truly free spot.

This never failed to put me in a foul mood before I even exited my vehicle. No doubt I would take my frustrations out on the other customers or staff (though never with a gun). I would be impatient as I pushed past carts stopped a bit too far in the aisle. I’d groan as that indecisive lady hemmed and hawed about which jarred sauce she wanted. I would stand seething as I waited for my turn making the same decision which, of course, I would make much more quickly. Next thing I know I’m rudely reaching in front of her offering a curt and insincere, “excuse me” or “sorry.”

Equally annoying, after finding a truly free spot and walking the half mile to the store, I would enter through the automatic glass doors to be greeted by the cavernous area that was supposed to house the carts for the shoppers. The echo of my sigh and grunts of frustration would fall on deaf ears as the staff was busy stocking shelves with merchandise I had nowhere to store. They were oblivious to the lack of ready carts for the customers.

A simple look out of the plate glass window revealed a parking lot over flowing with carts. Carts in corals. Carts in parking spots. Carts abandoned on the small dirt islands that helped to divide the parking are into neat rows. Carts everywhere but inside the store entrance where I needed one.

My aggravation, once again, would translate into anger as I stormed out into the lot to push a rattling metal cart over the rough and uneven pavement. The loud vibrations finally abated once we reached the smooth linoleum of the store.  Safely inside, the front wheel revealed an annoying squeak previously masked by the thunders trip inside and of course,  a slight tug to the left.

ALDI grocery stores, with a stroke of simple genius, solved all of these problems, well most of them, by simply tethering each cart to the one in front with a device that requires a quarter to free a cart to be used in the store. The quarter is easily retrieved once shopping is completed, the groceries are safely stored in the car parked in the spot you pulled into the first time without incident and the empty cart glides back across the seemingly glassy smooth terrain of the ALDI parking lots.

With this simplistic system no carts are left abandoned in strange and inconvenient places. Plenty of carts wait in the coral (at least on the off-peak hours I shop) ready for the customer to slide in the quarter before slipping easily into the store. Freed from the frustrations and annoyances of traditional grocery store cart usage, customers’ grasps their carts and shop with kind and joyful hearts.

Shoppers, overflowing with patience, gladly wait for that weird, indecisive lady to smell each melon oblivious to dozens of others stacking up behind her as her cart blocks the entire aisle.

The staff smiles and practically sings as they checkout customers and stock shelves knowing they do not have to tramp out of doors in all types of inclement weather to wrangle carts left willy-nilly in the lot. Customers’ kindness rains down on them making them smile and even like their job. They volunteer to get that item you overlooked bringing an array of flavors or styles to let you choose never asking the customer to reshelve it.  

A simple quarter, twenty-five little pennies, have made the world a better place. A quarter is just enough money to motivate people to want the refund and return the cart but not so much as to discourage shoppers from spending lots of money.

Even better, a generous spirit overtakes some folks. These new philanthropists offer up their carts to new arrivals waving away the quarter proffered to pay them back. This simple act of kindness inspires a chain reaction of paying it forward as that one cart gets handed off free of charge all day long.

People help each other out by commandeering recently unloaded carts right at the trunk of their fellow shopper’s car saving them from pushing it back to the coral. An act rarely witnessed in traditional grocery store parking lots.

The good mood of the customers often translates to other small gestures such as helping a less abled body person wrangle that impulsively purchased bookshelf into their too small car.

The addition of a quarter to release a cart into the customers care is genius.

Twenty-five cents might just be all we need to make our country unite and find compassion for each other. The white supremacists hands the cart to the Mexican-American. The misogynistic boss hands off a cart to the administrative assistant who suffers with low pay and daily harassment. The climate change denier helps the woman with cloth bags unload her cart of the organic, ethically sourced foods she purchased so he can push it back into the store to load up with his processed foods.
T
he mighty quarter may just lead the way to making us kinder, safer and happier.

Just in case that doesn’t work stop what you are doing and write or call your congressional representatives and demand change so we can shop without getting shot.

Links for contacts can be found here:  https://www.conginst.org/contact-congress/


Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Returning to Nature Through Pictures

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Spring has sprung here in Western PA! The trees are budding. The daffodils are blazing in hues of yellow and orange. The grass is greening up and needs to be cut (or "needs cut" if you're a local). The songbirds are busy with their mating rituals and provide a symphony of music as the sun rises. The pollen is torturing every poor soul that suffers from seasonal allergies.

This past weekend I joined a group of folks who I'd like to think were significantly older, but in reality were my peers, sigh, on a trek through the woods of the nearby Yellow Creek State Park. We were led by an experienced nature photographer. She gave a thorough and information-packed talk on how to best take pictures in nature using whatever camera you own. 

Some of my photog cohorts lumbered around with cameras and tripods or cameras with lenses as tall as a toddler or just a simple cell phone. All listened intently as we learned how to take advantage of light and shadows. We learned how to frame a shot. We were encouraged to spend time with one subject and take the shot from different angles using a variety of settings (when available) to get a different effect.

We began our slow meandering walk into the woods forcing ourselves to see the beauty in the leafless trees, the rotting detritus of last fall that carpeted the forest floor and the general browness of the landscape.

After a few minutes and shifting my idea of what beauty is, I was able to spot a variety of shapes, textures and even some color peeking through to photograph. I spent some time fiddling with the manual settings on my Canon EOS not relying on the automatic options. I changed F stops and ISO. I zoomed and unzoomed. I got low and aimed high. 

I found green lichen making interesting patterns on the bark of trees. I found bark in all types of textures and shades of brown. Moss provided a spectrum of greens and textures. The sun glowed through thick clouds that at first appeared to be a solid wall but when studied they had shape and shades of grey. The barren trees made for dramatic angles. Red berries the birds hadn't eaten popped against grey-brown bark. Little yellow wildflowers popped from brown leaves providing a contrasting background.

Once I started to appreciate the beauty of early spring, I couldn't stop taking pictures. Most of my pictures did not come out as I had intended but it was nice to get back into using my camera that had been collecting dust. I needed this push to get me excited about a hobby I let slip away. I love taking pictures, especially black and white photos.

As I started to snap shot after shot I became excited. I got dirty as I knelt i in the ground for better angles. I wandered off from the group and winded my way into the woods looking for more interesting images.

I would have kept at it but my 10-year-old camera decided it had had enough and just shut off.

As I wait for the new battery to arrive, I anticipate my next foray into photography so I can hone my skills.

Until then I will share some of my not so great shots with you.

Happy Spring. Take time to enjoy the little beauties that get lost.










Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Magical Christmas on a Dime

 By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston



My mother always managed to make our Christmases magical. It started with crafting hand painted ornaments or building them from clothespins with scraps of fabric and sundries from her sewing room. 

We always visited the local tree lot to select the perfect “fresh” cut evergreen tree. We would adorn that tree with the ornaments we’d made at home and school as well as the store bought and inherited treasures. Each branch of our perfectly lit tree would be finished with exactly three of evenly hung pieces of tinsel. No balling it up into a frizzy mess and tossing it on at our house.

We would smell batches of her cookies baking throughout the season as mom perfected old and new recipes. We would be allowed to help decorate her cut out shapes with candies before she baked them. We even were permitted to select a few shapes to be made into her delicious sparkle cookies. There were parties and family gatherings as well.

Of course, the most anticipated time was Christmas morning when we would find mounds of presents under the tree and overflowing from our stockings. My sister and I received very few gifts throughout the year. Our parents did not spoil us by buying us every little toy we coveted. On our birthdays, we looked forward to a few gifts, but Christmas was the when we hit the jackpot.

I’m not sure why my mom felt compelled to lavish us with such riches on this day. Perhaps she was trying to outdo her childhood. She was the fourth child of nine and my grandparents were not wealthy so gifts at Christmas were sparse. Perhaps she was trying to compensate for our emotionally absent and verbally abusive father. More than either of those, I suspect she liked to shop. She was an expert bargain hunter and that allowed her to buy many, many things for her girls at Christmas.

On Christmas morning it looked as if Santa had barfed under our tree. There were unwrapped toys that were clearly from Santa himself. Beyond those lay meticulously wrapped boxes that were from mom and dad to either my sister or myself. There had to be at least 20 gifts for each of us. There were toys, clothes and books.

After we opened those gifts, my grandmother would arrive with bags and bags that overflowed with gifts. Many of her gifts were handmade. She was crafty and a bit eccentric. Her gifts never disappointed. The most memorable of her lovingly crafted gifts was a piece of thick cardboard cutout into the shape of a wreath. She coated it in bright red wax and pressed seashells into the wax before it set. Then, she topped it off with a red feather. What eight-year-old wouldn’t want to unwrap that on Christmas day?

There were always more gifts from family friends. We would travel to my other grandma’s house where we would open several more gifts. The bounty and booty were overwhelming and glorious.

The tradition of overabundance continues to this day. My mother has created a monster of a tradition. The difference between then and now is that we do buy things for ourselves and our children throughout the year. We spoil ourselves and our kids 365 days a year, not just that one spectacular morning. As a result, the gifts at Christmas become redundant and not as exciting.

Not needing stuff or even wanting anything in particular combined with dwindling expendable income has made me want to downsize Christmas and focus more on the quality of the gift, not the quantity. The quality can be found in the meaning, not in the cost. 

A thoughtful gift means more to mean than an expensive one.

I have been encouraging, to mixed reviews, the idea of low cost or free gifts for our Christmas. Rather than spending two or more hours opening gifts, why don’t we spend that time playing games, cooking and sharing stories? Christmas is often a time for families to reconnect, that in itself is a gift.

Ideas for Free or Cheap Gifts

  • Make a photo album
  • Frame a picture you made or a photo you took
  • Make a Mixed CD/[/playlist to share
  • Regift something you no longer need like jewelry, a pretty scarf, an heirloom cast iron pan or knife
  • Offer your services like babysitting, cleaning, painting, etc...
  • Gifts of food like granola, spiced nuts, soups mixes, baked goods, etc...
  • A box/book of your favorite recipes
  • A day out to a museum, park or another free place
  • A homemade meal
  • A handmade gift, not a wax wreath with seashells, but something you sewed, knitted, sculpted, painted, etc….

My mother happily agreed to provide gifts from the heart and her kitchen. So now, at Christmas, I open homemade cookies, hand-me-down jewelry, CD’s of her favorite music and 20 store-bought gifts. Not quite what I had in mind, but I appreciate the effort.

All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth

Sparkle Cookie Recipe:
Pre-Heat oven to 375

1 cup (2 sticks) butter (softened)
1 ½ cups Sifted confectioners’ sugar (powdered sugar)
1 tsp Vanilla
1 egg
2 ½ cups sifted flour
1 tsp cream of tartar
¼ tsp salt
Cream butter, vanilla, sugar and egg together. Sift dry ingredients together and add to the first mixture.

Chill the dough 1 hour cover with plastic wrap so it doesn’t dry out. 

Roll out on a lightly floured surface to about ¼ inch thickness.

Cut into desired shapes with a floured cookie cutter

Place on baking sheet. Brush lightly with cool water. Decorate with Candies and sugars.

Bake for 10 minutes

Makes 3 dozen


Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Think Thrice Before You Speak: How Social Media Made Me Nicer

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston




“Before you speak, let your words pass through three gates:
At the first gate, ask yourself “Is it true?”
At the second gate ask, “Is it necessary?”
At the third gate ask, “Is it kind?”
~ Rumi
Those who have known me the longest know I had no gates to contain my words for much of my life. My words just leapt out the door as soon as my mouth swung open and ran for the hills unencumbered by barriers of any kind. No locks were in place to slow the pace of my often reckless word choices

The hurt and embarrassment they caused were not impeded. They just made a mad dash for the nearest pair of ears and drove their meaning both unintended and intended into the brain and heart of the people within reception distance.

Many times, I tried to will those words to make a sharp left as I prayed for the sound waves to be absorbed into a nearby tree or bounce off a wall and ricochet back into my mouth where I could swallow them back down and save myself the embarrassment and others the pain they would surely cause.

Sadly, acoustic science does not work like that.

Instead, I would inevitably have to face the consequences of my blabbermouth. My belief in always telling the truth no matter what was not as charming a quality as I had hoped. I thought honesty was the best policy. I still do.

If you want the truth, I’m your girl.

The problem was that I felt compelled to blurt the truth even when a white lie would have been a wiser and kinder option. Even just silence or evasive tactics like changing the subject would have served me better. For some reason, the truth always erupted from my lips and that was that.

Damage done.

My truth-telling was more obvious than I thought. Many people who I had thought took little notice of me and what I said often characterized me as someone that says it like it is. Or, she’s a straight shooter. Or, she’s not too shy to tell the truth. Or, she doesn’t hold back. Or, she has a strong personality. Or, she’s a bitch

Let’s face it, all those other euphemisms were just nicer ways of saying the latter.

The problem I had with that banal estimation was that I wasn’t a bitch. My words were never intended to hurt. They were meant to be kind. Truly. I believed being honest was the equivalent to kindness. I was not being mean or judgy like so many thought. That was me being nice.

Once I got my head out of my ass, I realized that my brand of thoughtfulness was never going to be perceived as kindness.

I needed to make a change.

"...social media taught me to be kinder and gentler"


Strangely enough, social media has taught me to be kinder and gentler. It has taught me to stop and think before I speak and respond. This took a bit of time and few instances of getting it wrong, very wrong before I learned to the art of letting my words pass through three gates before I speak.

How Social Media Taught me to be kinder:


Tone and intent are lost in the transmission. How many times have you sent a text or an email with a sarcastic tone in your mind only to realize the jokiness intended got lost in the microwaves no airwaves, no phone line, no…oh heck whatever line transmits our typed words to other people’s devices?

Other People are Jerks: Nothing has taught me this more than the cruelty that is being spewed in the name of political affiliation across the land of Facebook and Twitter. The things people feel compelled to share and the way others respond to what they disagree with is sickening. Many times, I have read something a reacted by typing some angry response followed by backspace, backspace, backspace until it was erased. I’ll sit and seethe and breathe and then type something more level-headed and wise only to realize that fool has no interest in my sage approach. So, I hit backspace over and over until my thoughts are erased once again. I walk away and imagine all the witty or intellectual retorts I could leave and then decide it’s best left unsaid. I am not going to change anyone’s mind or personality with a few well thought out sentences.

I want to have friends and family in my life and a job. While I occasionally like or share something that is mildly political that others with my group of followers, I purposely keep my stronger beliefs and opinions to myself. This is very hard to do because I want to support and defend those I love who are being hurt by the political views and leanings and voting of others who I like.

I have decided that I am not eloquent enough to be the voice that can make the strong arguments using factual information and the correct language needed. My rantings would sound more like inarticulate whining more than debate worthy knowledge presented in a professorial tone that I strive for.

If I allow my truth to flow from my fingertips, I will offend many more people than I did when it spewed from my lips. I want to share information about the things I love on social media: my family, my books, my travels, my work, and what I eat because I eat some pretty damn tasty stuff. If I start ranting about my politics I will alienate those people I want to hold close. Just because we don’t agree politically doesn’t mean I want to lose them in my life. Well most of them. Some I just can’t handle their level of hate so I unfollow them, but the others I want to keep.

Being employable for years to come is necessary. I am only 49. I can’t risk making myself a pariah in the warm and fuzzy field in which I work. All I can say is as my retirement age gets closer, watch-out. I may just let the words fly again. That is if I have word finding ability at that age.

So, for now, I have installed three gates. I will determine if what I have to say is true. I will then decide if sharing it is necessary. Finally, I will ask if it is kind. Once my words have passed through the three gates, I will type them and then ask the even more important questions, is my spelling and grammar correct?

Little Less Talk and A Lot More Action


Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Falling Back: Time Change Torture

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston



Is it any wonder I've got 
Too much time on my hands?
It's ticking away with my sanity
I've got too much time on my hands
It's hard to believe such a calamity
I've got too much time on my hands
And it's ticking away
Ticking away from me
Too much time on my hands
Ticking away...
Too much time on my hands
I don't know what to do with myself...
Too much time on my hands~ Styx

Who are these mythological creatures who get an extra hour of sleep when daylight savings ends?

“Falling back” is the cutesy way that weathermen remind us to set our clocks back an hour every Autumn. This sleep-robbing annual event does not deserve this charming slogan for it wreaks havoc on the lives of every person forced to follow its stupid rule.

These weathermen, in the Autumn of their lives, stand before green screens and show us clock hands sweeping backward on clock faces that have cartoonish smiley faces. The co-anchors and traffic reporters gush with joy as they claim they will get a whole extra hour of sleep on the weekend.

I call BS on them.

The only ones that get an extra hour of sleep are the sloth-like creatures who roam the halls of homes across America, teenagers. That’s right, the only ones who get more sleep are the ones who would have taken it whether or not the time changed.

Extra Hour of Sleep my Butt


These same weather people took my hour of sleep from me in the Spring when they forced me to, “Spring my clock forward,” another ridiculously happy slogan. If they just would have left the clock alone, the world would be a happier more rested place.

People blame the invention of daylight savings time on many different folks and ideas. Farmers and Ben Franklin are two common culprits. Sports and business operations might be to blame. I say, it doesn’t matter whether it is saving on candles or keeping money flowing by manipulating light hours to coincide with people shopping, stop messing with my sleep. Oh, and leave the farmers out of this, they hate it just as much as me. (Or is it “I”? I never know how to end a sentence with a pronoun)

As an insomniac, I rely on a steady sleep schedule to keep me sane.

Even my poor dogs suffer from these biannual time shifts. They live on an internal clock that tells them when they need to wake up to pee, when everyone gets home from school and work, and most importantly when it’s dinner time.

The sound of kibble filling their bowls is expected at 5:00 pm sharp. By 4:00 pm they start acting like fools in anticipation of their dinner. I am not sure what is so exciting about getting the same dry food day after day, but they seem super impatient to wolf it down.

The old dog must pee at 6:00 am and receive her Milkbone biscuit immediately after or she will bark and howl and cry and scratch at the door until someone wakes to do her bidding.

Like my dogs, I have always been equipped with the unwanted superpower of setting my internal clock. This can happen with just one unplanned wakening. If I have a cup of tea or water too many before bed, my weakening bladder will rouse me at 2:03 am to relieve the intolerable pressure and stop the dreams about drowning in a tidal wave. Then, for the end of time, I will wake at exactly 2:03 am.

I have not developed the superpower to undo this internal clock.

An Extra Hour Does Nothing for Me, NOTHING


My daughter made the observation on the day the time changed, "This day is moving so slow." Yes, dear daughter, it did, because we had an extra hour to fill. An extra hour to stay awake until you could slip off to bed without feeling like a toddler. An extra hour to need to eat. An extra hour to listen to your teens argue. An extra hour of darkness.

Prior to the latest time change, I happily woke around 5:00 am. Guess what time I wake now…4:00am. Do you know what there is to do at 4:00 am…NOTHING.

Everyone is still sleeping so I can’t be a jerk and run on the treadmill. I have to wait until 5:00 am to be a running jerk. I can’t go outside for a walk because it’s cold and dark and probably raining because it is ALWAYS raining these days. I have no desire to watch TV until 7:00 am when GMA comes on. No one can watch 3 hours of local news waiting for GMA, that’s just agony. So, I wander around and do chores.

I am doing chores when I should be sleeping!

The flip-side of this “extra hour of sleep” means by 8:00 pm I have been awake for 16 hours and I am bone tired. I must sleep. My internal clock did not “Fall Back” like the weatherperson told it to. My internal clock is irreversibly set, remember. So, by eight o’clock I am trying to keep my eyes open. I give-in by 8:30 and fall into bed. I fall fast asleep until 2:03 am when I wake…wait is it 2:03? Did I switch my clock? Nooo, I can’t remember if I changed my clock.

Anxiety from the uncertainty of whether it is 2:03 or 3:03 or 1:03 keeps me up.

Now my superpower kicks-in and from now until the end of time I will wake at 2:03 and never fall back to sleep.

Sorry if I sound a bit grumpy, but I am very tired!

Very Important Time Change Questions


Do sundials work? If the sun is directly in the center of the sky at noon and we change the time by an hour in the spring, is the sun directly in the center of the sky at 1:00 pm?

Also, if the powers-that-be decide to end daylight savings time forever (pretty please), does that mean that people born between March and November might have changes in their birthday? For example, if Sally was born at 12:01am on July 5th during daylight savings time and then daylight savings time ends she will have actually been born at 11:01 pm on July 4th, right?






Merciless Massage: My Journey to Cure Insomnia


Subtracting Sheep and Counting Blessings: Coping with Insomnia

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

Creepy Murderer or Friendly Neighbor: A Sort of True Horror Story

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston


He paces the corner like a shock collar wearing dog confined within some invisible boundary. He hears my approach and stops in his tracks. He raises his head and shifts his gaze from his feet to my eyes. Menace oozes from him. Unblinkingly, he stares directly into my eyes, piercing my soul.

I notice I am holding my breath. I try to avert my gaze, but, as if there is some magnetic force, I can’t stop looking at him. Neither of us smiles. The air between us is silent and still. Time ceases to pass. I keep walking, picking up my pace, then stumbling as I try to escape the indefinable threat I feel.

I approach. His eyes never leave me. As he pivots his head to track me, his body remains still as a statue. Tension and fear radiate from me. I can feel my heart beating in my throat. I am just yards away from him, too far for him to reach me but close enough that I can’t ignore him.

He parts his lip into a sneer and creepily utters, “Hi there.” Not wanting to provoke or offend him, I force a smile that never reaches my eyes and squeak back a lame, untranscribable greeting.

My heart races as I look around trying to find another person who can witness whatever heinous crime this guy is about to commit on me. No one else exists. I am completely alone.

I put my hand in pocket to locate my phone readying myself to either dial 911 or smash it into his head if he makes a move to grab me. Trying to unlock it, my sweaty hands keep the fingerprint code from activating. What is my password? My mind is swirling with all the ways I can escape. I can’t conjure the damn code. 

Where is everyone? Am I really alone?

I worry that if I scream no sound will come out just like all my nightmares when I’m attacked and immediately rendered impotent with no strength to fight back.

I widen the distance between us, crossing the street so he can’t grab me as I pass. I usually feel weird about crossing the street when someone else is approaching. I was raised to be polite. My gut commandeered my manners. My fight or flight instinct was in control.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to have a conversation. I just wanted to leave the scene before it became a crime scene. Just then, he started to move. At first, I thought he was going to start pacing again, but this time he emerged from his invisible fence. It didn’t appear he had been shocked.

He moved slowly in my direction. I wasn’t planning on going for a run that day, just a brisk walk, but I felt my muscles begin to twitch. My body had taken over and I could feel myself preparing for a mad dash.

Where would I go? Home was back past him. Plus, I didn’t want him to know where I lived. If I kept going forward I would find myself in a place with no houses. A small stand of trees and a cemetery were the closest places. I wasn’t a strong runner and much of the terrain was uphill.

He did not look like an athlete. He had the appearance of well-fed mama’s boy. He was doughy and shapeless. His clothes were impeccably clean but not trendy. His jeans had a sharp crease down the center of each pant leg. His white vinyl sneakers showed no sign of wear and tear. Surely, he never used them to exercise. Maybe he can’t run. Maybe he has asthma and his inhaler is inside the house around which he paced.

His hair was wet and combed back in the Beaver Cleaver style of good boys whose mothers’ lick their hands to smooth down the pesky cowlicks. He wore glasses with large frames harkening from the 1980’s. His pasty white skin made it seem that he spent little time outdoors like a guy who has hobbies that keep him in dark rooms with fluorescent lightening for hours on end.

He definitely looked murdery. You know what I mean, just odd enough to give off the vibe that, if given the chance, he might drag you into the bushes and stab you to death.
He definitely set off my creepdar

Creepdar: The innate sense that the person before you is a pervert, murderer or just a plain bad guy who you should immediately avoid or abandon in the middle of a conversation and by no means ever willingly seek them out again.

This nameless man lives along one of the three-mile loops I walk daily. He has not been there for long. Had I noticed him 20 years earlier, I would not have made his house part of my regular walks. Now the route is ingrained into my muscle memory and I have trouble diverging from it.

I wish I would have brought my dogs with me. Why didn’t I bring my dogs? They aren’t as much ferocious as they are wise. They can sniff out a bad guy in a Nano-second.
Just in case my creepdar is off kilter, my dogs confirm any suspicions.

I have been blessed with owning some pretty easing going, people loving dogs over the years. On a few occasions, my dogs have been spooked by friends of friends or strangers who have shown up at our door. Usually, my dogs want to say hi with friendly barks, jumps and doggy kisses while their tails wag and ears perk up. Every once in a while, upon seeing or smelling a new person, they get mean.

The happy yips morph into deep warning rumbles. If the suspicious person advances, the hairs on the ridge of their backs stands-up on end. Their tails and ears tuck as they tremble with growls and snarls and shower this person with ferocious barks as they pace uncomfortably around the suspected creep. 

We try to silence our dogs and calm them. We use soothing voices as we grasp their collars for fear they might actually take a chunk out of our guest. But, I know my dogs are never wrong and my creepdar is alerted

Too bad I can’t get away with barking and growling. I would definitely do that now.

He continues to move toward me as I vacillate between running, screaming or banging on the doors of the seemingly vacant houses. I notice that his gaze shifted to the car I hadn’t spied parked on the street until that moment. What was he planning?

Was he going to chase me down with the car? Was he going to run me down? Would he drag me across the road and stuff me into the trunk?

He reached for the door handle when I remembered the code to my phone. My hands trembled as I tried to type in the digits. I dropped the phone. I looked away from him long enough to find it in the pile of leaves at my feet. I grabbed it just as he yanked the door to his sporty sedan open. He locked me again in his gaze and his sneer returned.

More frantic than ever, I finally unlocked the phone. What was I going to do? Call 911 to report a guy getting into his car? That’s as bad as reporting picnickers for barbecuing in a park. I’m not that person.

I noticed his house behind him. A two-story home with a shabby, but not dilapidated, exterior. A yard with nothing but a lawn chair placed at the edge where the grass meets the sidewalk as if whomever sits in this chair wants to be able to snatch small children and unsuspecting adults as they meander past with earbuds blasting music impeding their ability to hear the man when he leaps from his perch to grab them off the street.

The house has basement windows. If it was like my house, there was a cold, dank and windowless coal room. It would stink of mildew and crawl with spiders. That’s where he probably stashes all his victims. He chains them to spikes driven into the dirt floor and gives them a five-gallon bucket for a toilet. His victims’ cries can’t be heard through the thick wooden door that seals them into the concrete room.

They shiver in fear as much from the constant cold in that dismal room. They are half-crazed from hunger and lack of sleep.

His prisoners must be girls who remind him of his mother. He waits for them to age like her.

I am closer to his mother's age. Maybe he wants me because he is growing impatient. His mother probably died long ago and he’s lonely. If I let him take me, maybe he’ll let the others go. I could be a hero.

Just then, the slam of his door brings me back to reality. He turns over the engine and slowly pulls out into the street and drives off. Moments later a neighbor emerges from his backyard and waves a cheerful hello. I recognize him from my previous walks. He does not alert my creepdar.

I restart my walk almost feeling disappointed that I wasn’t kidnapped and tortured. I guess all those girls in that basement will have to wait for the next middle-aged victim to set them free.
  
For now, I will relish my freedom and finish my walk. I'm no hero.