Ah, Salem in October

One has to love Salem around the 31st. From the Police Log comes this gem.

Police took a "fully uniformed Buzz Lightyear (minus the space helmet)" to jail, according to the log, after he seemed to be drunk. "For his and the entire universe's safety, (police) did place Buzz ... into protective custody," according to the log.


Perhaps he was rocket-lagged.




This one has nothing to do with Hallowe'en, but check out the alleged assailant's name.

Mary B. Strong, 48, of 1 Washington St., Salem, was arrested at 11:19 p.m. on West Avenue by Patrolmen Ryan Davis and Theodore Pierce on charges of domestic assault and battery and malicious destruction of property worth over $250. After Strong's boyfriend said she struck him in the head ...

Yeah, and Mary B. Violent, too.

Why We Love All Halloweds' Eve

This was cut and pasted from the Salem News, Salem Massachusetts. It comes from the Marblehead Police log.


A resident in the vicinity of Old Salem Road and Euclid Avenue told police at 8:38 a.m. that "she saw someone hanging from a tree," according to the log. "She tried to call out to them but got no answer." She denied that what she had seen was a Halloween decoration. Police only note that no hanging took place.

Hello?  Hello?

Same woman last year told police that she was strafed on Christmas Eve and that Marblehead was under attack on the 4th of July. 

Right Off the Boat

Thanks to Andrea and Gary Block, Lili and I will have one of the iconic Cortes experiences on Saturday. And with company here, too. Our friends Becky, Jackie, and Lily are visiting for the weekend. We'll all head to the dock at Mansons to meet the Blocks at their boat and we'll buy salmon. Andrea says their fish is extra delicious because Gary catches them exactly as bears catch them. He crawls around on the shore swinging his head back and forth and then snatches one with his teeth, spits it (ptoooey) into a reasonably clean bucket filled with rose water and lemon, and grabs another. He sings show tunes to them so they die in a less-stressed state. I don't know if I believe her, but I'll check Youtube when I get a minute.

Later, I'll roast up some of the purchase and make some salmon cakes, the well-received recipe for which is somewhere on this blog.

Although buying a fish essentially as it looked when, minding its own business it was yanked out of the ocean, is a little less convenient than store or restaurant purchases, at least we will have no concerns that it is what it is supposed to be. Turns out back home in Boston some people in the fish-for-sale industry can' t tell one species from another. I invite you to read this article from the venerable Boston Globe.

http://www.boston.com/business/articles/2011/10/23/on_the_menu_but_not_on_your_plate/?cbResetParam=1/

How come not once, I wonder, is there any mention of these guys selling more expensive fish by accident in place of less expensive fish?

In Alberta they did the same thing with pizza. It was never, ever pizza. Some gelatinous mass covering large amounts of uncooked something or other on a sponge, if we were lucky.

Speaking of people named Block, we knew a family back on the prairies with the same surname. Her first name was Amanda, Amanda Block. Shouldn't she be an offensive lineman with that name? Her son Andrew kicked extra points. Close enough I guess.

                                                                                 Jeez, is that who I think it is? Can't tell from that angle.

How's your Jack O'Lantern coming?

Greeting the Newbies

It's neat to see so many new people reading mikieandliliamongthetalltree.blogspot.com
A suggestion, start at the beginning which requires scrolling to the bottom and clicking on "older posts." You may have to do that more than once. There's a slide show down there, too. You may have to slide to the right to see it. If you sign up as a follower, you'll be notified when there's more to read of to see. Click on the ads, too, why don't you.

HELLOOOOOOO

Let me know if you have problems finding anything. Comments are fun, too.

Pumpkins 101

My hometown, Marblehead Massachusetts, sits right next to the Hallowe'en capital of North America perhaps the world, Salem. The Witch City has cashed in on the state and church-sanctioned murders about which most of us have heard. To be accurate, much of this mayhem took place in what is now the town of Danvers, formerly part of Salem. My dad is a Danversite. Most people there don't know of their community's connection to the grisly events of 1692. Then again, what can we expect of people calling themselves Oniontowners? The exteriors for the film The Crucible were shot at the restored location in Danvers where the trials took place. Salem though, has the cashe - and the cash. The city undulates with costumed revelers all October. Those who embrace the belief system known as Wicca see Salem much the same way devout Muslims see Mecca.

Salem High School's boys' sports teams are the Witches. Girls' teams are the Lady Witches. No one has ever been able to explain either to me.

So, with the Whaletown Hallowe'en Bonfire a little more than a week away, I thought it appropriate to share what I have learned about turning pumpkins into Jack O'Lanterns. I know, I know. "Isn't asking someone from Marblehead and not Salem about Hallowe'en traditions the same thing as asking someone from Lanesville about good Nanaimo bars?" Listen wiseguy, I'm as close to the real thing as you're going to get on Cortes Island.

1) Search for a pumpkin whose stem is firm in it attachment to the orb. Found one did you? Great. Now never touch that stem again. "But, Mikie, we always cut around the stem to..." Stop it. Leave the stem alone. What nutrients the fruit - you knew pumpkins are fruit, right? - receives after harvest come through the connection between stem and orb. Break or damage that connection and you have hastened the death of your new friend, you fiend.
2) Wash the exterior with gentle soap and warm water. Rinse and pat dry. Do the same with your knife. If you kill all the micro hitchhikers on the surface of both, your knife won't drag them into the wounds you are about to inflict upon the poor, innocent pumpkin when you carve.
2) Make the cut through which you will remove the guts and seeds in the back of the pumpkin. Make it just big enough for the smaller of your hands (you figure it out) to work in the cavity comfortably. Wash the piece you removed and the pumpkin's exposed wound before sealing it back up. Any commercial gourd glue will do. ( I just made that up)
2a) Candles? Sure, why not? Avoid votive-style with a metal base, if you can. As that candle burns and the wax liquefies, that shiny silver vessel will concentrate a lot of heat in a very small area at the base of the pumpkin.
3) Optimum temperature for a Jack O'Lantern is 10C to 14C. Frost damages the fruit's cells and shortens not only its shelf-life, but the period of time they're not grotesque to look at. That's true for people over 60, too, by the way. Plus, saggy, softening pumpkins get gooey and yucky and people are afraid to pick them up. Again, just like people over 60.*

So, Lili and I plan to bring special treats to the bonfire for those who have followed these simple suggestions to preserve you new artwork. We hope you're one of them.

* Yes, I am old enough to say that.

Emergency Social Services Training

Cortes Island Windstorm Damage

Photo from Tideline, Richard Trueman

Some of the things that make island living so attractive - tranquility, privacy, isolation, an actual rain forest, outdoor recreation - could also be part of a different list: those things that contribute to our vulnerability. We are fortunate that another characteristic manifest in Cortes residents is the primary defense against those realities: community.

It's hard to ignore forest fire danger here. The signs are myriad. There's one 100 meters from my home. When the planet under us shook last month it was not the first time. Who among us has not lost our electricity or our telephone or our internet? Or all three concurrently? Look out your window. How close are the power lines wending their way to your home to old-growth forest?

It's not my intention to increase the frequency of stress-related facial ticks among people of the archipelago. Fear is pointless and counterproductive. What happens happens. Preparation - both personal and communal - is the point. Most of us have containers filled with ice to protect our food during an extended power outage. Many of us have "grab-and-go kits." Everybody has strategically-placed flashlights around their homes. Generators, chain saws, all-wheel drive vehicles abound, too. Good. Great. But, imagine a situation in which all those tools are not enough. What - or who - then?

Cortes and Quadra have a dedicated group of folks, Emergency Social Services personnel, who are trained or are being trained to work to meet the personal and interpersonal concerns of our people when the next need for their expertise occurs. They will work in support of  the first responders, the fire brigade, BC Hydro, medical professionals among others to return some order when order has escaped us.  From designated reception centers around the islands ESS will offer comfort, timely referrals, information or perhaps just a place to take a load off your feet and to sip a cup of tea.

Cortes in particular, with three separate population centers separated by wilderness, provides challenges best met with a diverse and dispersed group of ESS personnel. Having as many trained ESSers in all three of those locales ensures that the entire island gets the social services we need as part of larger system of Cortesians helping Cortesians.

As of Saturday last, Lili and I are proud to number ourselves among those working at this level of community preparedness. We encourage you to consider joining us. Interested? Contact Chris Dragseth at chris@twinncom.ca. or leave a comment right here on this post.

Thanks

If Shakespeare Were Alive Today He'd Be Rolling in His Grave.

OK, there are things I need to get off my chest, whimsically of course. I love the English language. Man has never crafted for himself, save perhaps fire, a tool better-suited for a set of complex tasks. English has power, nuance and beauty other languages envy. There's myriad ways of saying the same thing while managing the intensity, humour and sensitivity to the listener or even listeners. It is not an accident that English is the language of both business and diplomacy. It has a logical/mathematical component that, if more of us understood, the language would be well-served. Things have to add up.
Why then, is it given such short consideration by those who speak it as a first language? I have always thought it's because most of us were not taught to love and respect our mother tongue. As a teacher I have fought that trend everywhere I have taught and continue to do so. As Lou Reed said nearly forty years ago, "Just watch me now."
If you have used an adverb in the last decade, odds are you misused that adverb nearly every time. Eats, Shoots and Leaves by Lynn Truss does a wonderful job of poking fun at common faults among us English speakers, but her approach to this particular part of speech is heroic: "Find an adverb and kill it."
Here's a self-diagnostic. Hopefully, the ferry will arrive on time. If you are among the great unwashed who thinks that sentence means, as written, I am hopeful the ferry arrives on time... sorry, it does not. But, I am hopeful the ferry arrives on time does mean that, however. So, feel free to use it. The first one means that when the ferry arrives it will do so while it is hopeful. If it ends in "ly" reconsider using it. Small potatoes? Yup. But doesn't mother English deserve better.
If one-sentence paragraphs are OK (except for effect), why do we need paragraphs?
Whenever I read something and see an exclamation mark, I yell that sentence at the top of my lungs. To exclaim means to cry out or say loudly or vehemently. They don't mean I love you.
Folks who in error replace figuratively with literally can never use figuratively. Think about it. How could they?
For you and I was probably taught to most of us as the correct expression of that prepositional phrase. This is just for you and I, for example. Take you and out. What happens.? This is just for I? Object of the preposition (for) demands objective case. We don't teach case anymore. Therefore... we get "for you and I."
At the end of the day should only mean that. It's an odd combination of cliche and "I watch too much reality TV" used any other way. My God, Coach on Survivor uses it at the same time he is referring to himself in the third person. OK,OK, I watch Survivor but JUST to find transgressions like this. You owe me.
I used to work for a guy who said for all intensive purposes. What in the world are intensive purposes?
When I hear I'm just saying, I think the person who said it is really saying, "Ah jeez, I wish I didn't say that" or "Don't hit me."
They got punched in their face, or words to that effect where there is a singular noun modified by a plural adjective. Unless all of those people share a face (there's a hideous image), it should be faces. Love your language.
A few words that don't exist*: Preventative (preventive), prioritize (priorize), funnest (most fun).
A few that do exist but are always misused: pre-plan or pre-order. You plan. You order. I made a convert at a gas station in Edmonton one day after a discussion on pre-paying.  Words starting with a prefix and then a hyphen are adjectives not verbs. "I had a pre-order cup of bile and then I called Amazon."
Don't get me started on I'm like...
Thanks for letting me vent. There'll be a test tomorrow.

I hope I am on time, I hope I am on time...

* It is sad but true that you'll find some of these words in dictionaries. The language is plastic and should be. But is chronic misuse a reason to expand the most beautiful of tools for personal expression? What if mathematics and science were treated that way? "After 200 years of students thinking 7 times 6 is 49, we have decided to list it as an acceptable answer." "From here on in, matter can be both created and destroyed."

Bird of No Feathers Flocks Separately

Above, the palace Ray and Diane have supplied for Papillon. Lili is admiring Ray's construction, the fine accents and attention to detail and the southern end of a north-facing chicken. Note the obvious, though predictable, envy displayed by the other birds. It's not an accident Papillon is facing that way.

Below: Diane and Ray (in that order)

Oops, wrong  photograph. Below Ray and Diane. (L to R)

Early Release Day

Those of you enamored of the chicken stories are in luck. Shaggy's Auntie (sorry, Wendy) Diane called this morning to ask if Ray could build a structure for Pollo-non-grata. Of course I agreed to it. Who knows who will need a place to sleep some night and a condo in the chicken pen might not be so bad. Ray's a builder so you know it would at least be to code, whatever the hell that means on Cortes. In the meantime, I told her that today was the next assigned day to see if we couldn't reintroduce Papillon to the flock. I let the gang out to wander and eat their bugs and rocks. I dismantled the pen-within-a-pen and Papillon slowly, vigilantly edged out. She bolted for the coop, even with her gamy leg making hard to run in a straight line. In a minute or so she was out, this time listing in the opposite direction as she ran aimlessly. She stayed in the larger enclosure. When I brought her torturers back, they seemed to ignore her. Were they waiting for me to leave? Do they have that kind of guile? Are they duplicitous? Diane reminds me, "After all, they are the original birdbrains..." She's right. They probably have no evil plan, but as soon as I post this, I'm going back up the hill.

Send Lawyers, Guns and Money

I was watching a Mel Gibson movie the other night, but I saw only the last third. It's called Edge of Darkness and it's based, I've discovered, on an English TV detective show of the same name. Why did I take a strong enough interest in the film to do some research? Well, Gibson's character, a homicide detective, is named Tom Craven. Those of you who keep up may remember I wrote a book call Spineless (Lulu.com, 2004). In that story there is a Massachusetts State Police detective named Tom Craven. Hmm. The film is set in Boston and in western Massachusetts. Spineless is set in Boston and in western Massachusetts. Hmmmm. In fact, the western MA location for both is Northampton. HMMMMMM. Both stories involve quasi-government operatives not working in the best interest of their constituencies, and, get this, killing people in a very odd way with chemicals. HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
Of course there are other story and style elements in my story and the movie that have zero connection to one another. (SPOILER ALERT) Such as in the movie Craven dies at the hands of those he is investigating. No... Wait. That happens in Spineless, too.  Turns out the TV series predates my book by nearly a decade. But in the series the detective's name is Ron Craven. For the film the location is moved to Massachusetts and the character is renamed Tom Craven. Argggghhh.
Sure, sure. OK, I know. But just because I am paranoid doesn't mean they aren't ripping me off.
By the way, Gibson does a credible job with his Boston accent. I figure I have to say something nice about Mel. Otherwise they might find me in a ditch with Infidel in Aramaic scrawled across my forehead.
Loved your Simpsons episode, Mel!

Birds of Prey

One of the chickens disappeared for a couple of days. We'll call her Papillon. I discovered her one morning caught between the two fences that surround their pen. Her wings, her feet and her head were entangled in both the metal of the interior fence and the mesh of the nylon. She was strangely silent but flapping as well as she could considering she'd hogtied herself. Once I freed her, no small feat that, it was clear she'd lost a lot of her plumage and was limping. We don't know if she did that trying to free herself from her self-sprung trap or if she'd escaped from someone or something's clutches. She was less than mobile for a few days and then, funny-looking as hell, began to rally. She ranged. She ate. This weekend the rest of the flock turned on her and quite violently. Ray and Diane, Shaggy and Moxie's new auntie, discovered it while we were in Courtnay. They created a pen-within-a-pen refuge for her. Lili let her out Sunday while her contemporaries (I hardly think we can call them friends) were ranging. They came charging up the hill after her like the Red Army. No one seems to know why the group has isolated her, though people who know their pullets better than we have seen it before.The only thing we know for sure is that it wasn't over a boy.
Now that we have separate quarters for Papillon, I wonder what will happen if another bird gets bullied by the flock. Will we have to make another haven inside the one Ray and Diane constructed? And, if a third one is victimized, another pen inside of that one? Before you know it their would be 11 concentric sort-of-circular little prisons, one bird, cowering in each. Meanwhile the dominant bird - and there is one - would be pacing menacingly and yelling in Chickenese, "Yeah, you bitches better shape up in there!"

Lili wondered if we weren't going to have to give her away. There are other solutions.

We could forward her to the Red Sox clubhouse, too, I suppose.

Quote the Bard (not Josh, the other Bard): A bucket of Popeye's, a biscuit and thou... oh, and a Bud Light

The title of the photograph above is At the End of the World. It was taken at Whaletown Harbour, 18 October 2011. Quite a few new images are in the slide show at the end of the page, way over to the right.
Again, allow me to invite your comments. Click on the ads, too. Throw us a bone.

No Terminals at the Terminal

As we waited for the ferry the other day, we could see there was a delay in unloading the arriving vehicles.  A car had broken down. The ship's crew couldn't get the car going, so it had to be towed off before we could load and sail. A rather inglorious moment for that poor soul, though there were no recriminations from those inconvenienced. Sometimes getting flipped off or screamed at would be better, or at least no worse, I have discovered.
Satellite radio does not penetrate the dense rain forest on Cortes very well. Couple that with hills and valleys and you get a big dose of SiriusXM bupkis in most places. When on the ferry I have a strong signal and relish it. Have you figured out the connection between this paragraph and its predecessor? On our way back I listened to the playoff game between the Cardinals and the Brewers while admiring the beauty around us. Battery and soon thereafter spirit both drained. Everyone was patient, but I still felt they'd keel haul me if they could.
The crew has a portable jump start system. Two helpful mariners sprang to my rescue.
"Have you ever seen anything like this?" crewman # 1 to crewman # 2.
"No, never." Turning to me, crewman # 2 says in a British* accent, "This isn't a hybrid or something else stupid is it?" Stupid?
Never having had a moment's trouble with the battery, I was stunned to learn that, according to Crewman 2 my battery, "... is in there somewhere, under all this shit... probably." Crewman 1 and I spied a plus sign next to the fuse box, and with some trepidation ("Why else would it be there?") attached the proper cable and grounded the other. It started right up. Once home, I let the vehicle idle for a while to recharge the battery, if in fact there is one. It seemed to recover, but the whole time the car was running I was expecting someone to knock on the door to remind me that British Columbia is an idle-free zone.
Later that evening a friend of a friend told me he had locked his keys in his car on the boat. They retrieved them by using a hacksaw to gain access through a rear window.

Oh yeah, the Cardinals won the game.

*I told you, they are everywhere. Everywhere.

Educating Oneself and Each Other

I have the pleasure of working with two young women who use a BC curriculum delivery system called Self Design. We could call them Rosa and Juliet... but we won't because their names are Kiera and Tara. They have chosen for themselves concentrated aspects of the Renaissance on which to do in-depth research projects. Kiera will immerse herself in art of the period, though the artists and their media have yet to be determined. But just imagine, dear readers, how glorious first exposure to any of those painters, sculptors, writers, wallpaper hangers and yodelers is to be. Tara has been snared by my passion for the incredible history of Spain - the Reconquista, Columbus, Inquisition, colonization, etc. Maybe she will discover why Cortes Island is misspelled or the both sad and triumphant story of Juan Francisco Quadra, after whom our neighbor island is named. One way or the other some of what she will learn will inspire her and some will repulse her. Spanish history is famous for that.

After their research has been accumulated, we'll all talk, drink cafe con leche, eat tapas and giggle about their new-found knowledge. Through those conversations the girls will discover ways they might demonstrate formally what they think to be important from their learning, choose their own media and execute those tasks. It might be writing historical fiction, or construction of something physical, creating and defending an argument, or teaching their peers what they have mastered and why it's significant. Lots of opportunities for assessment-for-learning along the way.
All this and puzzles, too. Here's one creeping up on us now...
How do you pronounce the capital of Spain? Is it   BAR ce lo NA    or, is it   Bar ce LO na?

Stay tuned.
There are quite a few Cortes and Quadra Island young scholars doing Self Design. They also are in the process of creating a democratic system through which the group can support their learning and manage their behaviour issues, should some arise. I'd like to work with them towards that end.

Who Dat?

In Alberta we used to have birds, starlings, jays, chickadees mostly, throw themselves into our floor-to-ceiling windows regularly. It happened most in the spring after the dopes had gorged themselves on the previous season's fermented crab apples hanging from the tree just outside the windows. I buried more than one. The majority survived, though stunned. It was great entertainment for the dogs, if nothing else. Occasionally the victim would rise, stumble around for a few minutes as a result of both the impact and the apple wine they sucked back, then go on about their bird business. That bird business sometimes was returning to the apples.  A similar collision happened here the other day; similar but different.
I heard the tell-tale thump of creature hitting triple-pane glass. The dogs did, too. On the deck, splayed out in a very uncomfortable-looking position was a young owl. It was breathing, though not rhythmically. Its face was turned towards us. Perhaps because of that, the dogs just looked back, no noise. The owl's pupils opened and closed over and over again. As amazing as that is to see up close, it looked like death throws to me. Lili came in from the yard and asked what we were looking at. As she arrived at the window, the bird, never taking its eyes from its observers, stood...and stayed for a number of minutes peering at all four of us, one at a time. There was communion among the two humans, two dogs and this skilled predator a meter or so away. Lili began talking to it. We don't know if the owl could here her or not - they do have legendary hearing - but it stopped swiveling its head and focused its gaze on her. Its beak began to open and close. Were they now speaking to one another? Who knows? It sure did look as if they were. Lili, "It's OK baby. You're going to be OK." I imagined the owl to be responding, "Who, who who, who." That's all owls can say, after all. But the inflection might have said much, much more, like, "Who you talking to? Who?" Could have been.

I had gone to get the camera and was attempting to slip out onto the deck to take photograph or two when our new feathered friend flew right at my face, loosening sphincters all over the place. Then it was gone

Zebulon and Ms. Muir’s Globe

His name was Zebulon. Zebulon hated his name. He hated the one-size-too-big flowered shirts his mother laid out on his bed most mornings, but he hated his name more. He hated the nicknames that people tried to give him, too. Zeb? Lonnie? Z-Dog? Well, no one ever called him Z-Dog, but he knew he would hate it if someone did.

Zebulon called himself Bob. "Bob" because of a long-ago baseball pitcher his uncle had seen. This Bob guy threw the baseball fast. He dared the batters to hit it. So, in his very rich imagination, Zebulon became Bob; until the day he became the Earth Master. From that day Bob, Zebulon, Zeb, Lonnie, and

Z-Dog were no more. He had become the Earth Master.

Her name was Eliza. Eliza had a yellow ponytail and what seemed to Zebulon to be a hundred noisy friends who dressed and wore their ponytails just like Eliza. They all shared Ms. Muir's classroom that year.

Eliza was very happy with her name. She wore a shiny silver necklace that said Eliza in cursive. Eliza could see that Zebulon was not happy with his name by the way his narrow shoulders fell when Ms. Muir called on him. Eliza was really good at figuring out things like that. She asked him one day during geography class, Zebulon's favourite class, what he wanted to be called. He made a big mistake. He told her.

"Bob. I like Bob."

"I see," said Eliza already walking away.

Eliza decided to call him ZebBobulon. Eliza's noisy friends did, too. The smiles on their faces when they called him ZebBobulon, dragging out the last syllable -ZebBobuloooonnn - made his hands ball up. Some

days they ached. Those days Zebulon would spend recess in the boys' room running warm water on his sore hands. He used the same paper towel to dry his hands and his eyes on those days.

That Tuesday at school, three days before Zebulon became the Earth Master, began like most Tuesdays. He peeked into his wrinkly brown lunch bag and sighed.  He answered Ms. Muir's attendance call.

"Here."

"Please say 'present', Zebbie," asked Ms. Muir. She smiled, pushed her hair to the side, and freed her upper lip from her teeth where it had become stuck.

"Zebbie," he thought to himself. Zebbie?

Eliza looked back, past her yellow pony tail and over her bouncing left shoulder, right at him. As he pretended not to notice, Zebulon wished his shoulders bounced more and slumped less, but he was sure they never would.

"How come Ms. Muir called you Debbie?" Walon, a new boy, asked Zebulon at lunch. "I thought your name was Zebulon." Zebulon reached into his brown bag as if there were a snake at the bottom. Walon unzipped his insulated lunchbox.

"Not Debbie, Zebbie..." Zebulon told Walon the story. He told him mostly because Walon was the only boy in the class whose name, Zebulon thought, was worse than his own. Walon listened politely nibbling at his sandwich and sipping his juice.

That day Zebulon and Walon talked and walked after school. They decided something important. From now on Walon would call Zebulon Bob and Zebulon would call Walon Walon. That lasted until Friday. The day Zebulon became the Earth Master. They shared parts of their lives with one another, too.

Walon was from Lancaster, a town about two hours away. His mom and he had moved not long after his dad died in a one-car accident.

"I was mad at him. Still am. He was there one minute and... not the next. My mom and grandma told me I was stupid that it wasn't his fault. I didn't care. It was his fault to me. Anyway, Lancaster's real small. My mom was embarrassed. So we moved here to my auntie’s house."

Walon shared he wouldn't go to his dad's funeral he was so angry. And to spite his mom for calling him stupid, too. He stayed home.

"Wow," was all Zebulon could find to say.

"Don't tell anyone that story, OK, Bob?"

"I won't."

Zebulon thought about telling Walon his secret. It was right there, ready to tumble out, but he didn't. Maybe another time. He asked a question instead.

"Walon, what would you do now? Would you still stay home mad?"

Walon shrugged his shoulders. Shielding his eyes against the late afternoon sun he looked at Zebulon. "Don't know. He’s still dead one way or the other."

Katrina was one of the girls who stayed close to Eliza. Katrina was afraid she'd miss something fun if she didn't, but Zebulon had heard Eliza say bad things about Katrina. He had heard her say things about lots of kids when those kids weren't close by. Katrina, Rosa, Lorraine... they all stayed as close to Eliza as they could. They shared those mean moments with Eliza whenever they could. Sometimes Katrina, Lorraine, and Rosa were mean even when Eliza was somewhere else.

Thursday afternoon, the day before Earth Master, Zebulon stood beside Ms. Muir's desk. She removed the microphone headpiece she used sometimes to make sure everyone could hear her and placed it on her desk. She turned the small black volume switch all the way down. She smoothed her hair.

"Zebbie, would you like to help me with tomorrow's geography lesson?"

With Zebbie ringing in his ears, he almost missed the question Ms. Muir asked.

"Would I, what...?" Then it clicked. "Yes, I would like that," he answered smiling.

"Don't you care what it is?" Ms. Muir asked.

"Nope, not if it's geography."

"Good, then. Pick a learning partner and see me tomorrow during morning recess, alright? Oh, and Zebbie, don't say nope."

"I certainly will and I certainly won't." Zebulon was already hurrying toward Walon.

"Cool," was Walon's answer to Zebulon's offer. "That would be cool."

That night Zebulon studied his maps and his globe. He wanted to be ready for the lesson. Djibouti, Andorra, Guam... no one knew more places than Zebulon. The Andes, the Amazon River basin, the Marianas Trench, the Inland Sea of Japan, the Chixalub crater... he counted quickly on his fingers other things he knew about Mother Earth. The Equator, the Prime Meridian, the Great Wall of China... Zebulon knew the important things man had built or thought up, too. He ran his index finger the length of the Panama Canal.

 "Most people don't know it runs north and south,"  he said to himself.

"Bob, what do you think she wants us to do?" Walon seemed a little nervous to Zebulon as they walked to school. "It's geography, Zebulon answered. “It doesn't matter. We'll do great." Walon, to his own surprise, felt Zebulon's excitement. Maybe they would.

Ms. Muir's globe was massive. Zebulon could not get his arms around it. He wished it were his globe. When it stood on its big circular metal base, the fattest part of the globe, the Equator, reached the edges of his desk. He loved the feel -the mountains were high and the valleys were low. It had big words even for small places - SASKATOON. And, Zebulon loved spinning it, especially spinning it. Ms. Muir's globe spun smooth and heavy, as Zebulon knew the real world spun.

"I chose you to do this because I know you love geography, Zebulon." He was as happy she didn't call him Zebbie as he was with her kind words. "I also know you know the names of even the smallest of countries. This is what I'd like you and Walon to do."

They were to spin the globe, and as it slowed down, Zebulon was to stop it by placing his finger on it. Each student was to receive a research assignment, one at a time, on the place Zebulon stopped the

spinning globe. Ms. Muir said she knew Zebulon would pronounce the names correctly. Walon had two jobs: to write the student and the assignment together on the board and to use the microphone headset to help everyone hear what Zebulon would say. Mrs. Muir told the class what was to happen. Out came 23 assignment books.

"Ms. Muir, would you come to the office? You have a phone call." The voice coming through the wall speaker sounded tinny and lifeless. It always did. It had to be Mrs. Douglas, though Mrs. Douglas was far from tinny and lifeless.

"Boys, you know what to do. I'll return as soon as I can." Zebulon felt a tingle as the door closed behind Ms. Muir. He spun the globe for the first time. The sphere whirred. Zebulon wondered if this is what the Earth looked like to the astronauts. He stopped it with his finger, well, it took two fingers. Ronan, dark-haired and bespectacled, in the first seat of the first row, heard, "Lichtenstein."

"Huh?" Ronan looked puzzled, but he did stop doodling on his binder. Zebulon spelled it without looking at the globe. Walon repeated it looking just as puzzled as Ronan. Still, Walon spelled it correctly on the board. Ronan wrote it in his binder and returned to his drawing. Zebulon spun the massive globe again.

Austin, behind Ronan, heard "Uzbekistan." Austin, puzzled said, Uzbekiwho?" "Spell it as it sounds, Walon." And Walon did. Shae-Lynn, next in line, received the Salish Sea. She seemed relieved. Walon, with his right hand holding the earpiece, said "The Salish, ladies and gentlemen, Sea goes tooooo... Shaaae-Lynnnnn!" Zebulon grinned at his friend. It was going very well, even with Ms. Muir in the office.

"Would the girls' grade 7 volleyball team come to the gym at the end of the period?" The tinny lifeless voice requested. "That's the grade 7 girls' volleyball team."

Zebulon went on with his task. Jayden got Mongolia. Jacob got Patagonia although he was sure there was no such place and said so. Lili got something or someplace called Myanmar. Her eyes darted from side to side. Zebulon asked Walon to write Burma next to Myanmar. "Myanmar used to be called Burma," he said. Lili sighed. She had heard of Burma.

Then, it happened and Zebulon and Walon were not prepared... no one was.

"Get me an easy one, ZebBobulon." It was Eliza's turn. She sounded as if she were singing and giggling at the same time. Zebulon thought about making up a name. Perhaps he'd say Bananastan or something, but he didn't. He spun and stopped the globe. Looking up at Eliza he said, "The Peninsula of Anatolia."

Just as Walon said, "Anatolia ta stop boddering me, hah!" Eliza disappeared; a flash of unfocused color moving toward the window really, really fast. The two kids who were giggling at Walon's Anatolia joke stopped. One covered her mouth with her hand.

Zebulon sensed something as the other kids now sat wide-eyed and stunned. He spun again. Walon asked quietly if he should put "Eliza-Anatolia" on the board just as Zebulon stopped the globe again. "Yes." He looked at Katrina. "For you, Belarus," he said.

As her friend vanished, Rosa walked quickly towards Katrina's empty desk. Zebulon was already stopping another whirl of the globe. "Rosa, Democratic Republic of the Congo." Poof! Away went Rosa. Lorraine was moving toward the door, but not quickly enough. Zebulon shouted "Spain" over the near-riot now on in his classroom. Lorraine, too went pffft in a swipe of blues, greens and yellows. It was at that

moment that Walon said excitedly and for the first time, "Bob? Ah, like, you're not Bob anymore. You're the Earth Master."

"Please write, Walon. We can’t forget where they’ve gone.”

“Gone?” Walon wrote it all on the board, names and locations. His penmanship was shaky. The near-riot of a minute ago calmed. All eyes were on Zebulon who asked the remaining kids to return to their desks.

They bumped into each other doing so. Zebulon spun Ms. Muir's globe one more time. He called his own name,"

"Cambodia."

Zebulon clenched his jaw, closed his eyes and went nowhere. Nowhere. Walon stood motionless for a moment, with a startled though joyful expression on his face. Then, as his face tightened, his eyes nearly closed in concentration.  His hand went back to the earpiece on his headset. "What? Who is... who?" Walon took off the headset extending it to Zebulon.

"It's for you." The two boys stared at each other over Walon's outstretched hand.

Zebulon  slipped on the headset adjusting the height of the microphone.

"Hello?"

"Zebbie? Hi, it's Katrina. How are you?" Before Zebulon could answer Katrina spoke again.

"Where in the world am I?" Her voice cracked and crackled in Zebulon's left ear just as Ms. Muir walked through the door.

"Who's missing here? It’s not lunch time yet." Ms. Muir's question bounced around the room. Zebulon tried hard to think of something to say but he couldn't. Panic began to set in. There was still a voice

buzzing in his ear. In that split second, Walon spoke. "They called the volleyball girls to the gym," he said shrugging his shoulders. Mrs. Muir nodded. "OK, boys and girls, you may start lunch early. We'll finish this next geography class. I need to return to the office." Soon, Zebulon and Walon were alone in the room.

"Are you still there Katrina?"

"I guess I'm somewhere, but... how come you can hear me, anyway?"

Zebulon raised one eyebrow.

"I can't explain it, but I have an idea. Can you describe where you are?"

Katrina began to describe what she saw. It was very cold wherever she was. She saw a cream-colored "...kind of castle-ish thingy place." Zebulon asked if there was a flag she could see. He was expecting Katrina to see a green and red flag with a white and red pattern of decoration along one edge. That's exactly what she saw.

"Katrina, you're in Belarus." Zebulon used his bare hand to wipe the sweat from his upper lip.

"I am below what? What am I below?" Katrina sounded as if she were going to cry. And then she did.

"Belarus, it's near Ukraine." Katrina was in the middle of a very long sob. Zebulon wasn't sure she even heard him. Another voice, also panicked, cut in.

"This is Eliza." There was pause, a lengthy pause. "I'm frightened."

"Eliza, listen carefully..." Zebulon asked similar questions of Eliza. "Is there a big sort-of round building close by? It has narrow towers close to it?" Zebulon thought he knew where Eliza went because he had sent her there, but he needed to be sure.

"Let me loo... yes! It’s right across the water from me. Is that the Taj Mahal, Zebbie? Am I in China, then? "No, Eliza, you're not in China and it's not the Taj Mahal, Zebulon said. Just stay where you are. Understand? Don't go anywhere."

"But I think I see a Starbucks, Zebbie..."

"Move and you'll not be coming back." Zebulon had no idea if what he said were even true

"OK, OK. I'll stay right here."

It got quiet both in his headset and in the room. Walon was staring at him. "We haven't heard from

Rosa."

"Or Lorraine," Zebulon said. I'm thinking we will soon, though. And they did. They both were where Zebulon had sent them.

Mr. Hodges, the lunchtime supervisor stopped outside the door. He asked if the boys were going to the gym for intramurals. They answered him perhaps too enthusiastically.

“You betcha.” “Absolutely.”  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, so to speak.” The boys giggled at there own joke.

"Good, then, fellas." He laughed. " I'll see you in there." Mr. Hodges moved on.

"Jeez, Walon. We both screamed at him."

"I know, right?"

Walon sat on the edge of Ms. Muir's desk. Zebulon filled her chair. Walon rubbed his face. "What do we do now, Bob?"

"I keep thinking to myself that this globe can't be doing this. I play with it every day and no one has ever disappeared."

"OK," said Walon. "Well, if it's not the globe..."

"It’s got to be me. Or me and the globe? I don't know. I admit it, I have thought lots of times of ways to make those girls go away, but I never thought of this."

"If I hadn't seen it, I would never believe it. How do we get them back? I mean, we want them back, right? Right?

"Of course. We can't leave them out there."

""We can't? No we can't, can we? Can we?

"No, Walon, we can't." They sat. They looked at the floor.

"Walon, put the headset back on, please. See if anyone is there."

Walon did what Zebulon asked. "It's Eliza, Bob. Now what?"

"Ask her how badly she wants to come back."

"Eliza, Bob wants to know how bad you want..."

"I heard him. Ask Bob what he wants."

"What do you or we want, Bob?"

"Here's what we want?"

Zebulon stepped closer to Walon. Walon twisted the microphone toward Zebulon.

"If you come back here, Eliza, we want you to stop being mean. We want you to..."

"Zebbie, I'm not mean. I don't know what you're talking about..."

"Don't mess with the Earth Master, Eliza. He knows what you are," Walon said confidently.

"OK, OK. I won't be mean."

"Oh, I know," said Zebulon. I know you won't. Because if you do I can send you back there or somewhere else worse. Right?"

"OK." Eliza's voice was small. If a sparrow could talk that’s what it would sound like Walon thought.

"Your noisy friends, too. Can you hear me girls?"

A chorus if yeses and OKs came through the headset loud enough for Zebulon to hear. Walon pointed at his earpiece and smiled.

"You all know what I can do, right?" Zebulon motioned to Walon to turn the headset down. He did.  "Holy cow, Bob you have them right where we want them."

Zebulon nodded. "Now let's see if I can get them back."

"You know it wouldn't be the worst thing if you..."

"Come on Walon. Turn the mike back up."

"OK Eliza, you'll be first." Zebulon put a tack in Ms. Muir's globe right where they lived. He looked up to see his classmates returning from lunch. He asked them to sit. They sat.

"Eliza?"

"Yes Bob?"

"Get ready. Oh, and Eliza... please call me Zebulon."

"Or Earth Master," Walon added in a very deep, very phony voice.

Zebulon spun Ms. Muir's humongous globe more slowly than he did earlier and in the opposite direction. He started with his finger on Istanbul, the city Eliza thought was in China. When his tack approached, Zebulon forced the sphere to stop. Eliza materialized right next to Zebulon.  A short cheer went up from the class. Then they remembered who had come back.

"Thank you, Zebulon. May I sit down?” Eliza waited for Zebulon to say yes and moved quickly to her seat. She folded her hands and breathed deeply. One by one each of the other girls returned. Each looked more embarrassed than the last.

"It's over, right girls?" asked Zebulon.   “You remember our deal?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Eliza nodded. Her friends nodded.

“What’s his name?” Walon asked pointing at Zebulon.

They all said Zebulon in their sparrow voices. Then they were quiet; very, very quiet. A quiet that lasted all day. Every once in a while Zebulon would catch on of the “travellers” staring his way. He could not help himself. He’d bare his teeth and squint hard at them.

As Ms. Muir walked purposely into the room, the class pulled their math materials from their desks. Except Ronan, who continued to draw and Jacob who was talking to everybody and to nobody. Walon leaned over to his friend.

"What should I call you now? A lot has happened, you know." Walon really was not sure.

"Zebulon, I think. It’s my name."

Walon smiled. Zebulon smiled back.

"OK, cool. Zebulon it is. Listen, after school,  do you think you can dial up Lancaster on that big ball of Ms. Muir's? I have something I need to do there."