“I wouldn’t survive one of those Halloween slasher movies,” my wife said when she got home. “I heard tapping on the window above my desk. Then I saw someone wearing a ‘Michael Myers’ mask.”

“‘Did someone get locked out?’ I thought,” she said. “So I went to check. No one. That’s when I discovered I hadn’t locked the doors at all, which I then did.”

“After I got back to the office, it dawned on me that the person could have come inside before I got there,” she said. “But at least the cosplay wanna-be pro-wrestlers were there or I’d have been a nervous wreck by quitting time.”

While she slept like a baby that night, I wrestled Micheal Myers in my nightmares.

Marcella Marie Dennison, 60, of Wakeman, Ohio, passed away on October 22, 2022. Marcy, as she was better known, was born on June 25, 1962, to Ted and Madge Dennison (nee Greyeyes) in Reno, Nevada, joining her sister, Cheryl Renee.

In 1965 the family relocated to Crescent City, California, where Ted and Madge divorced. Later, Ted married Joyce Beal, who had three children from a previous marriage; Rick, Margo, and Paula.

Marcy’s athletic talent became clear during junior high and high school, and she excelled at competitive swimming and running. Running became her catharsis, and she was a champion in the Humboldt-Del Norte high school league, qualifying for State in cross country and track.

She set many long-standing records and was inducted into the Del Norte High School Athletes’ Hall of Fame last year. After Marcy graduated from Del Norte High School in 1980, she studied at Long Beach State University.

After college, Marcy moved to Washington state and married Frank Daniel Gopher on February 25, 1989. She and Frank were soon blessed with a daughter, Raevyn Marie Gopher, and then a son, Joseph Daniel Greyeyes Gopher.

Marcy immersed herself in Frank’s (Yakima) and her (Cree) native heritage, embarking on her own business creating “Traditional American Indian Sewing & Crafts,” including Cradleboards, jewelry, moccasins, and buckskin dresses. As her children grew, she became involved with, then worked for, the Toppenish School District. After she and Frank parted ways, Marcella began her successful career in accounting with Battelle Corporation as an auditor.

In 2019, Marcy moved to Wakeman, Ohio, to care for her father. Her heart longed for the place she always considered her home, though. The ocean, the beach, and the Redwoods are where she felt most at peace.

Her daughter, Raevyn Marie Gopher, and her son, Joseph Daniel Greyeyes Gopher, survive her, as does her father, half-sister Carol Greyeyes, stepsisters Paula Beal and Margo (Beal) Flora, and stepbrother Rick. Marcella was preceded in death by her sister, Cheryl Renee Chapman, and her mother.

A future memorial service in Del Norte County, California, is planned, where her ashes shall return.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I had the slowest, rudest and nastiest cashier today. I’m done using the the self-checkout.”

In her British accent, Texas asked Bishop, as he paid Helene for the cup of coffee, “How long should I keep mums outside in these colder temperature?”

Bishop wrinkling his face, said, “I wouldn’t leave your mom outside, ever.”

“Not mum,” Texas shot back, “Mums!”

Bishop took a sip of coffee, rolled his eyes, and replied, “Ain’t enough coffee in the world,” as he headed out the door.

“What does coffee have to do with flowers?” Texas turned and asked me.

I smiled, answering, “Now you’re jus’ showing off.”

Texas was still confused when I left the store, heading for the Wild Jubilee Refuge, south of Virginia City.

CORRECTION: In tiny print is the address 1630 S. Commerce St., Las Vegas, Nev., 89102 — home to Culinary Workers Union Local 226…so not only dishonest but a misdirect…

Every day until Tue., Nov. 8, we will be bombarded with political mailers and ads in Nevada. I generally throw them away without ever looking at them.

However, I dropped this one, which forced me to glance at it. This unnamed culinary union (which it was not from, but rather a Political Action Committee pretending to be one) doesn’t think people can remember stuff, including things that never happened.

Firstly, aside from the apparent exploitation of ‘culinary union,’ Sheriff Joe Lombardo was forced to stop arresting illegal aliens and turning them over to ICE by the current Sisolak Administration through the Nevada Attorney General’s office, headed by Aaron Ford. Secondly, no ‘culinary union’ (which is by nature a financial extension of the Democratic Party) in Nevada supported or endorsed Republican Lombardo for Clark County Sheriff.

The dishonesty is maddening.

My Cousin Elmo says, “It would be fun if Elon Musk, the new owner of Twitter, changed the bird logo from blue to red, jus’ so we could see a few heads explode.”

Perhaps I ought to pay a bit more attention to how I ask a question.

The other morning I heard my wife pass air. Then she came down the hall only to do something not in her nature.

“Whew!” she announced. “I have bad gas.”

“Where do you think it came from?” I asked, wanting to know what she might have eaten to cause it.

Without missing a beat, she answered, “My butt.”

 

 

The tension was palpable that late morning. Some who were there might have even said you could have cut it with a dull knife.

The two groups, one made up of the ‘woke’ crowd, the other ‘unwoke.’ Because what else could one call them?

Fascists? Nazis? MAGA Republicans?

They shouted names, pejoratives, slurs, and insults at one another. Yet they remained on opposite sides of the street, separated by a thin strip of faded asphalt.

It was but a prelude.

What was the sudden call to action? Nothing, or maybe it was everything, as the two groups broke the invisible barrier and rushed violently at each other.

Chaos ensued as they slammed into each other, a mosh pit of angry, gyrating, over-wrought individuals seeking dominance. The screaming and the hateful undertones disappeared as they enjoyed the vibration of the heavy metal guitar and the deep-throated base of the lead singer’s voice.

Drivers had to find alternate routes through Virginia City as the dancers refused to yield C Street to them.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I self-identify as a conspiracy theorist. My pronouns are they/lie.”

The witches sat in their sewing circle, stitching together skins of whatever flesh they had gathered since the Wednesday midnight meeting of the week before.

The oldest of the coven asked, “Have any of you eaten at that new spoonery, ‘The Cockroach and Cauldron?’”

Several of the knarled grotesques answered ‘yes.’

“How was it?” she continued, adding, “My sister is coming in from the East, and I’m thinking of taking her there for dinner one evening.”

“It was delicious,” one harpy said.

“What did you have?”

“Eye of Knute, with a blood Lambeau soup. Exquisite.”

“I had the Baked Bat Wing Ala Mode,” said another. “To die for.”

“And their French-fried Fingernails under Glass is remarkable,” added someone.

“I tried the Broiled Ghost, sauteed in Ectoplasm Juice,” someone on the far side of the cavern shadows said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone.”

“Why is that?” the eldest hag asked.

“Tasted like sheet,” she answered.