It’s the season for all things scary, and I found myself wondering how many people are actually looking for more things to frighten them this year.

There is a new horror movie about Zoom that is supposed to be terrific ... and I won’t be watching it. I’ve never been a fan of horror movies. On the very few occasions I’ve tried to watch a scary movie, I end up both covering my eyes and plugging my ears (the ominous music is the worst part of it) and I emerge with a pretty limited experience of the film.

A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about my husband Peter’s war with the rodents, and a friend sent the lyrics to “Ben,” a song recorded in the early 1970s by a young Michael Jackson. It was the theme song for the movie “Ben,” which was a sequel to “Willard,” which Peter then decided he had to see. The movie has only recently become available on DVD and so, when it arrived in the mail, we sat down together to watch it.

“This isn’t a horror movie, is it?” I asked Peter for the second or third time.

“No! It’s about rats!”

That didn’t really answer the question, but I agreed to watch until it got too scary and so I sat with him through the opening credits. The movie starred Ernest Borgnine as the mean boss and Elsa Lanchester (who played the bride of Frankenstein a few decades earlier) as Willard’s mom, and a 19-year-old Bruce Davison as Willard. But the real stars of the movie were a lot of rats playing themselves.

And Peter was right, there was nothing remotely scary about the movie until the last fifteen minutes when Willard turns homicidal and enlists the rats to help him. Then the rat named Ben reads the word “pesticide” on the box that Willard is pouring into the rat’s dinner bowl (or possibly recognizes the skull and crossbones?). That’s when Willard is killed by his little rat friends.

Afterward, I watched a few interviews about the making of the movie. This was before the days of computer-generated imagery and to get the last scene, Bruce Davison was covered with peanut butter and had 600 rats poured on top of him. They said they shot this scene last because they weren’t quite sure how it all would work out.

I didn’t learn how much the young Mr. Davison was paid for his role, but I’m guessing it was not enough.

The movie was a huge and unexpected success when it was released, and a slew of killer animal movies followed. There were movies about snakes and killer ants and, of course, “Jaws,” a bit later on. The movie also apparently prompted an uptick in pet rat adoptions.

The idea of horror fascinates me. There are movies and books about dolls and babies and clowns and all sorts of things that wouldn’t, under normal circumstances, be scary. I can read horror novels only because I can put the book down and reassure myself that I am still in my home, no monsters in sight.

And maybe that’s why we need scary stories right now more than ever.

It’s good to leave a scary world and realize that everything is not as terrible as the book or movie. Real life might be less certain than usual, but I can take comfort in the fact that I’m not covered in peanut butter with 600 rats swarming all over me.

Sometimes, you have to take what comfort you can get.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

“I’m hunkering down,” Rebecca told me.

I know what she means. My friend Rebecca just returned from a road trip she made after a lot of careful consideration. First, her mother was sick. Then, she fell and broke her hip. Rebecca’s mother is 90 and she did not seem to be getting better. Rebecca decided she needed to go visit her.

Rebecca and her daughter drove across three states for the visit. Rebecca said it was a wonderful trip and she bonded with her daughter as never before. Her mother is doing a little better now.

“She’s still 90. But she knows I love her,” Rebecca said. That was the purpose of the trip, after all.

I was a little jealous of Rebecca, I’ll admit. My husband, Peter, and I have gone exactly nowhere -- unless a trip to the dentist counts. Even going to the dentist was kind of exciting. It felt like some sort of exotic escape, not simply an occasion to have the plaque chipped off my teeth. I suspect I talked too much to the dental hygienist, who had a job to do that was not made easier by my chatting.

But I won’t be going back to the dentist for a while and, like Rebecca, I’m hunkering down. Peter and I still visit his sister, Lori, who is fighting cancer, so we are being particularly careful. It’s getting cold, people are moving indoors, and there doesn’t seem to be much reason to expect anything will change anytime soon. I think my whole notion of what constitutes a special occasion is shifting.

Another friend, Yvonne, comes by with her dog, Remington, at least once a week. She used to just stop when she was walking by and, if I saw her, I’d come out and give Remington a treat and we’d catch up. Now she rings the doorbell.

“Remington!” I holler at the top of my lungs.

Remington goes crazy with excitement and I come out and sit on my front steps and chat with Yvonne. Sometimes Peter joins us. He tosses goldfish crackers to Remington who, since the start of the pandemic, has really improved his catching skills and now routinely catches six out of six goldfish that Peter tosses.

“Great job!” Peter tells the exuberant dog. “I think you’re ready for the circus!” Remington is proud, I can tell.

Yvonne and I will chat for up to a half an hour, or whenever Remington gets too bored and impatient to stand another minute, and she always promises to come back soon. I don’t remember get-togethers like this being so important before. But they are terribly important when we are all hunkering down.

I hear a lot of people talk about how we will remember the times we are living through now. Some of the predictions are far-reaching and world-altering and industry-changing and they could be right.

But I think I will remember playing games with Remington, and looking forward to Yvonne’s next visit, and reading to Lori on her deck, and watching the moon rise with Peter -- with nowhere to go, and a fading memory of where we would go if we could.

We are all hunkering down now and, while I’m sure the world will get larger and more exciting again, right now it is quiet and small, and I am learning to appreciate the small and quiet things.

I called up my mom, whom I haven’t seen in almost a year. “Nothing happening here!” I tell her.

“Nothing happening here either!” she responds. And that seems to be OK.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

Today I will get Blue again.

Blue is the anxious Italian mastiff that I dog-sit on Wednesdays while his owner, Bill, works in the office. The new procedure is that I walk down to Bill’s house, fetch Blue, and bring him back to my home. This seems to work better than having Bill drop him off. When Bill does that, Blue hangs onto Bill’s legs and tries to avoid coming in my house like a petulant 4-year-old trying to avoid day care -- which is exactly what he is.

When I go to Blue’s house, Bill has already left, but he’s not been gone so long that Blue is tempted to eat any of the furniture.

The first time I went there, I was a little concerned. Blue is a very large dog with massive jaws and a loud bark. I didn’t want to open Bill’s door if Blue thought I was an intruder.

So, as soon as I got into Blue’s backyard, I started singing, “Blue! Oh, Blue!” in my most endearing singsong voice. By the time I got to the door, Blue was waiting, tail wagging. When I reached for his leash, Blue was over the moon. “She’s come to rescue me!”

I went from evil babysitter to emancipator just like that.

Once Blue gets to my house, it’s a nonevent. Blue lies on his bed and sleeps most of the day. His eyes flicker open when I walk around the room and every so often, he sighs loudly. I imagine he’s letting me know that I’m a little dull, but my company is better than nothing.

I like having an animal with me when I work. For several years I had a cat named Lucy. Lucy was with me during my divorce, when I lived alone and cried a lot, and we became very close. Lucy was deaf, which made a lot of folks pass her by at the animal shelter. I didn’t mind that Lucy couldn’t hear. I talked to her anyway, and when I wanted her attention from another room, I just flashed the lights and she came running.

Lucy was my constant companion but, like office mates everywhere, she could be troublesome.

I distinctly remember the morning I left my computer on overnight. I came downstairs and saw Lucy at my computer. She had managed to open Excel and had a document populated with strange symbols and numbers. She had opened Word and somehow made it so that if I opened any document in a file, every other document in that file also opened. Finally, she had a Google search going and was looking up the meaning of the word, “Itgy.” I am not making any of this up.

Of course, the last action is the easiest to explain. It is said that every cat has three names: a familiar name, a fancy name, and a secret name that only the cat knows. I could only conclude that by sneaking up on her as I had, I had uncovered Lucy’s secret name -- and it was Itgy.

Blue doesn’t seem likely to mess with my computer and, even if he’s sleeping most of the day, I can tell he likes having me talk to him. The truth is, I’d be talking whether he was there or not. But it’s good to have some company while I work.

Every so often, I write something that surprises me or that I like. I read it aloud and say, “Blue! What do you think?”

Blue heaves an enormous sigh. And he’s right. It still needs work.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called, “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION